Flight at Dusk
by shamrob42
Summary: The defeat of Team Magma and Aqua sowed distrust between the League and the police, leaving Hoenn in flux. Amidst the uncertainty, a terrorist rampages across the region. As one investigator attempts to hunt him down with skilful deduction and unwelcome assistance, he unearths a 140 year old war conspiracy, and forces Hoenn to realize that some wounds never heal. Revamped
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

_3rd June 2005_

_Fortree City_

The pidgeot dodged to the right, cleanly avoiding the air slash attack. Righting his orientation in the air, he returned to hovering above a large expanse of cleared land. His last gust attack had barely budged his opponent, a battler who was rapidly growing into a major source of frustration to him and his trainer. Jerking his head upwards to smoothen out his now messy crest, an action that only his kind could seem to do gracefully, the pidgeot brought his gaze back towards his adversary. A large skarmory, so large as to be a biological oddity in his species, hovered before the pidgeot, the metallic lamina that comprised his wings frayed wide and stretched outwards from his body. They flexed slow, deliberate arcs, movements at odds with the skarmory species' normally aggressive, hasty nature. Its short crest was angled off to the right of his body, eyeing his normal-type combatant from the side, almost mockingly so. Its jaw was crinkled in amusement at the side, a peculiar sight with his head being comprised completely of metal.

"Kreehaaw!" the pidgeot cawed angrily. That skarmory was _smirking _and _taunting_ him.

The pidgeot spared a glance to his trainer a few dozen meters beneath him. A brother of his since the nest, the pidgeot knew he would have some idea about breaking down that skarmory's defenses. After all, if there was anything he could trust the most about his trainer, besides an odd obsession with dark blue downing, was his resourcefulness. And cockiness.

The pidgeot turned to his trainer below. Yeah, he really should be keeping that part in check more often. He made a mental note of that.

"We'll break him down Pidgeot. Use aerial ace! Try to move him around!"

Pidgeot's head dipped knowingly at the command. Flapping furiously, he climbed higher into the air as commanded, before flipping himself over, pulling into a dive, and enveloping himself in streaks of dazzling light. He sliced through the air straight into his target and before the metal bird's trainer could so much as blink, he lashed out talons, striking furiously at the skarmory's side.

Pidgeot did not stop there however, as he pulled in his legs and used his momentum to rocket up and over the skarmory, before hurtling down again, slashing at the target's other side. He noticed the damage, or the lack of it, but also noted that his opponent's counterstrikes were too slow to touch him. He waited for the right moment to execute the next part of his trainer's plan.

He heard the skarmory cry out in frustration, and saw the bird roll away, breaking eye contact with him. Pidgeot readied himself. As always, he kept his eyes pinned on the skarmory, but whilst mustering the energy to perform his next move, he kept his ears open to any commands meant for him.

Or similar ones from his trainer's friend. She always had something to watch out for.

Pidgeot exhaled, releasing his charge of energy. He then scanned his surroundings with his hearing and peripheral vision, as he had been taught to do after every use of the move. The skarmory stabilized himself from the roll, but looked dazed and confused. Pidgeot crooned and allowed himself a slight wing pump. It seems the move paid off. His trainer appeared pleased too. His friend, the skarmory's master, was smiling lightly, appearing mildly impressed. Though she was pretty much as calm and self-assured as always.

"Nice trick Falkner," she called. "But double-team only gets you so far! Skarmory, use whirlwind. Everywhere!"

Pidgeot heard that command, and braced himself. He sighed mentally. He's seen this before.

Looks like Winona was going to get him. Again.

* * *

_150 years ago was a time before powered flight, before the Wright Brothers revolutionized long range transportation with their brainchild. It was a time that man's obsession with flight was stronger than ever before. A time where man was truly mystified by the ability to touch the sky, to a point that any manner in which to reach into the heavens would have been greeted with immense acclaim, even regarded as sacred. Despite having constructed gargantuan monuments in the past like the Bell and Brass Towers of Ecruteak City or the mysterious Sky Pillar of Hoenn, in hopes to somehow reach into the stars and the sun, it remained as elusive as ever. The numerous failures of airship construction only seemed to confirm these fears: that it was a domain that was impossible to explore. _

_This desire to fly was born from its apparent impossibility. It was a physical barrier; it appeared man was just not meant to rise and soar. But man had overcome such limits before; our ancestors took down mamoswine for food, and ursaring for game, both species possessing strength greater than we could hope to muster. And yet at the time, leaving the ground, a feat second nature to the ordinary taillow, continued to elude us._

_Indeed, most people would have had to humble themselves with this revelation. However, they would have to first humble themselves with an even greater tragedy._

* * *

Pidgeot thought he had the upper wing. He knew his trainer had explained to him before that the aerial ace would draw the skarmory's and Winona's attention long enough for him to set up the double team. That worked fine, he thought. Falkner also said the illusion would give him many options to draw upon. Pidgeot doubted that the second part, just a little bit, as his copies were being annihilated almost as quickly as they were created. The Whirlwind blew into his copies one by one, and the residual winds from the blasts buffeted his body.

Pidgeot looked down at Falkner, awaiting instruction. He appeared pretty annoyed at the swiftness of how the skarmory was defeating the illusions, but Pidgeot knew his partner would get over it quickly. He was tenacious like that.

"Pidgeot, Summon a razor wind!" Falkner announced.

Pidgeot swirled in a tight circle before halting and tearing his suddenly glowing wings upwards. Pidgeot knew the complex move normally required a bit of set up time, but Falkner had told him that the extra time required would be made up by the illusions he created. Pidgeot just hoped that the illusions would last long enough.

Pidgeot patiently summoned the energy need for this move. Skarmory was still aiming gusts at the doppelgangers, who copied his razor wind action to further his illusion. Falkner appeared dead focused on the metal bird. What of Winona?

She still appeared as relaxed as when Falkner challenged her to the practice battle. Pidgeot noted her weight balanced evenly between her feet, her stance light yet steady. With her arms hanging leisurely from her lithe figure, she was garbed in a white undershirt and a thick form fitting jumpsuit, tailor made for high altitude flight, hanging loosely over it.

A particular violent gust rushed past Pidgeot's down and ruffled his crest. He flipped it again. A messy crest would affect his flying.

Winona's own was platinum with lavender tints; they fell loosely from her head, save for two tufts that adamantly flicked upwards across her stylized aviator helmet. Pidgeot noted her large azure eyes scanning across the battlefield, searching for something. When they locked with him, and she seemed to smirk knowingly, Pidgeot couldn't help but avert his gaze briefly. She found him. And she seemed to have a counter in mind.

Pidgeot shook his head knowingly. She always did.

"Skarmory, use brave bird at _that_ Pidgeot!" she instructed, pointing at the form that had the brightest glowing wings.

The avian complied, cawing loudly as he hurled himself at the real Pidgeot, coating himself first with a stark red coating of plasma, before accelerating further into the attack, the greater intensity reflected in the shade of blue that began to stream into his red.

Falkner held out his hand as if to remind Pidgeot to hold his attack. Pidgeot knew what to do.

"Now Pidgeot, mirror move!" Falkner yelled.

Pidgeot molded the razor wind into large panels that coated his wings. The massive skarmory bullet collided into them, flinging the armored bird backwards with as much ferocity as the brave bird attack would have unleashed had it connected. The steel pokémon rolled uncontrollably before crashing into the ground. The bird shook his head groggily after the impact.

"Nice one, Pidgeot! Now, brave bird!"

Winona appeared as surprised as Pidgeot had seen her in quite a while, but pleasantly so. Falkner was pleased. Pidgeot was pleased too. But then Winona smirked. Pidgeot didn't like Winona's smirks.

"Skarmory, get ready-"

* * *

_September 20th 1860 – December 20th 1864_

_The Orre Uprising, 150 years ago, was that terrible tragedy._

_It was a war that engulfed all of Hoenn, succumbing almost the entire region's population to foreign control, whilst amounting to the massacre of a quarter of human life there and claiming the lives of many more pokémon. It would forever scar Hoenn's history, and forever influence its future._

_The war pioneered new methods of death and destruction. Newer black powder weapons permanently eclipsed and outclassed the few remaining swords and halberds, but above all were the mass incorporation of ordered pokémon battalions. Pokémon had been used in wars for thousands of years, but never had they been molded into an army with such synergy with their human counterparts. Both the Orre aggressors and the Hoenn defenders began conscripting pokémon trainers and their teams, whilst encouraging their soldiers to maintain strong ties with their former pokémon battlers. Of particular military significance was the creation of aerial regiments, teams of trainers who honed the art of aerial war and flight, with their pokémon, the closest thing to raining death from the skies. They were gifted with the opportunity to soar, a gift that no other people in the world were granted. And they turned their gift into a force of malevolence._

_The Orre Expeditionary Force ravaged the opposition of the defending region, starting with a lengthy sea campaign that left the Hoenn navy in tatters. Once they tasted land, they launched a vicious pincer movement along the middle and west of Hoenn, down Route 111 and into Mauville, clawing and clutching at the heart of the region. _

_Their victories were spearheaded by one aerial battle master, known simply as Aquila. A mercenary hired by Orre generals to guarantee domination over the battlefield, he was a source of terror in the region, unmatched in his battles against Hoenn's best. Aquila was a singular force that swiftly left Hoenn preciously defending Lilycove, their final free city on the mainland. And then he disappeared. Hoenn successfully defended Lilycove, they counterattacked, and they won. An unprecedented military resurgence; never had one army fought back from such complete invasion. And it was all because he vanished._

_His dominance over enemy pokémon and enemy soldiers alike was described as nightmarish for even the most merciful of Orre sympathizers. No one knew how he did it, how he unnaturally shed the shackles of human endurance to become the force he was. _

_But he was there. Air superiority was his, and with his fearlessness and his flier, an unidentified demon that had a combination of speed and firepower unknown to the rest of the world, he was a true master of the skies. Someone who thrives in an unfamiliar domain untouched by man, with nothing but complete, uncompromising will and sky high confidence in his success. No one has matched him to this day._

* * *

Skarmory crooned into Winona's open palm, whilst the gym leader herself offered it soft compliments on his performance before turning towards Falkner. She, unlike her avian who was slightly bruised and battered from the aerial hustle, was unruffled and fresh. Falkner himself was all over the place, fuming at the result of the battle. Falkner's pidgeot, despite his spirited fight, had lost. Again.

Smiling lightly, although any smile was too much for a smile for a sore Falkner, she offered a brief consolation.

"That was close Falkner. You've definitely improved."

Falkner's eyes twitching uncontrollably.

"H-how'd you do it? We planned for everything this time! Pidgeot and I had the tactics, the fool-proof replies to your type advantage, almost complete control of the pace of the battle, and even managed to ground your skarm! And then you pull off a wicked move that only a maniac or you would consider! It was completely ridiculous! But very cool. Dad would have loved to see that. But still completely ridiculous! Maybe it's because you _are_ a maniac or something because that was genuinely the most awesomely ridiculous thing I have ever seen a skarm pull off! Winona, I've known you for years, and I _still_ don't know how you do it!"

Winona shrugged, though her smugness eventually showed through. She was a flying type trainer after all.

"You do know. I'm the 'graceful bird user taking flight into the world,' remember?" She chuckled lightly at her title, before continuing. "The gym leader with the soaring will and sky high confidence and all that."

"Ya know Winona, conceited isn't a good look for you," the defeated grumbled. "We'll see what happens you take on Pidgeot or Noctowl without a type advantage. Swellow would've been a pushover."

Winona shifted her weight to one side, hands on her hip. "And it would be different to the dozen or so times that Swellow knocked their sorry feathers out of the sky because…"

"My tactics would work on Swellow. They wouldn't work on your flying tank of a pokémon-"

Skarmory cawed in annoyance.

"-but they'll dismantle Swellow's weak defenses!" Falkner declared.

Winona shook her head, grinning wryly, before reaching over to pluck Pidgeot's pokéball from her friend's hand with a soft 'pop' of her mouth.

"Yeah? Maybe later. For now, why don't we walk back to the gym to get Pidgeot healed up. He always knows what to do when you rant."

* * *

**Author's note:** And I live!

After a ridiculously long break from the fiction world I decided to return and quite seriously revamp _Flight at Dusk_. I'm so sorry about the hiatus, but I hope I can make up for it by just making everything a little bit fresher. If you enjoy piece let me know, and any and all criticisms are welcome. I know I've made a couple of controversial choices in creating this world and its characters, but I assure you everything was done for a reason!

Thanks all,

SR42

Oh right, disclaimers.

Disclaimer: I do not own Pokémon. The following fan-fiction contains thematic elements inspired by Christopher Nolan's Dark Knight series; I do not own that either. Any similarities between this and elements of other fan-fictions or other forms of literature are purely coincidental and completely unintentional.

The fiction draws upon small parts present in the mainstream Pokémon games but is far from canon. It is closer to a thriller located in a world with Pokémon and its associating lore.


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

_Above Route 123, Hoenn, 28__th__ September 1863_

_The Orre Uprising._

Bright rays burnt into his eyes. The frigid weather chilled him to his core and numbed his fingers. The fierce winds battered his tired body and whistled piercingly into his ears. The entire sensation, every shiver, every ache, every twinge, every throb, was absolutely…_refreshing_. Richard Schaffer peered down to watch the landscape shift before him. Whilst travelling at breakneck speed made it nigh impossible to pick out any distinct shape in the forest below, he still found it oddly soothing to watch the blurs of fern green and myrtle shades rocket past him. Flight has always been a love affair for the aerial battle master. Whenever he took to the wing, he desired to soar higher and faster than any other being on Earth, to challenge the true upper limits of the world. Schaffer felt a place was always reserved for him amongst the clouds, and it was the elation resultant in this unique privilege that drove him on through dire situations such as now.

He turned his attention to his destination, marked by a plume of smoke so immense it could be spotted from nearly half the journey from Rustboro. A violent siege on Fortree City was being conducted by a division of the Orre Expeditionary Force. His flight of Hoenn's aerial battle masters was scrambled to help stave off the invasion of Fortree. It was a daunting task; Orre won most of their skirmishes on Hoenn soil, and always when they had air support. _His_ air support.

_How do they do it? How is their air force so dominant? Answer's simple. We all know it. But wrong. It has to be._

"Hey, Schaff! You ready?"

He _knew_ the Orre aerial divisions were terrible; he took apart entire squadrons with his flygon alone. And yet one man in their air force was seemingly invincible; the infamous Aquila ace.

Aquila was somewhat of an urban legend amongst the Hoenn ranks, a demon that struck fear into every troop going into battle. No one caught a glimpse of his face, and only a handful could make out his mount. It was a truly devilish beast; a large, triangular head which comprised mostly of enormous jaws powerful enough to completely crush a man's head in it, a bony, lean body encased in stone colored, abrasive scales, two huge crobat-like wings, two stout, taloned feet which extended from the lower body, and a powerful tail tipped with an arrowhead which was capable of severing said man's head before the jaws crushed it. A modern gargoyle it would seem. But the beast is far from myth, as it was responsible for thousands of deaths whilst under Aquila's command.

"Schaff? Hey, flight lead!"

Schaffer and his flight were widely regarded as the best of the Hoenn's aces. They were heroes when they won battles and pillars of support during times of crisis. He, and his number two Rainer in particular, have been given almost celebrity status, a means to somewhat take the minds of the Hoenn citizens off the grim state the war has left them in. It was thus understandable that a clash between Aquila and Schaffer's aces was always a heated debate throughout the Hoenn ranks. Of course, both men always shook off such questions from the younger class of soldiers, but the thoughts of such an epic clash always lingered their minds. Schaffer in particular, longed for a challenge in the air. His love for flight extended into dogfighting, and it was provided Schaffer with an unmatchable thrill to duel in the air with enemy fliers. However, his five man flight tended to be relegated to the defense of Rustboro, a key city that could not be allowed to fall under Orre control. Due to this, he never had a chance to face Aquila and this left Schaffer picking off the dustox that were the rest of the Orre fliers whenever they tried to attack Rustboro. But Schaffer knew a clash with Aquila would be inevitable. _And it may come today. _

_"_Schaff!" Rainer, flying off Schaff's 7 o'clock, yelled once more.

Schaffer smiled. "Yeah Rainer, I'm ready. I can't wait_."_

* * *

_Fortree City, Hoenn, 28__th__ September 1863_

_Now I know why sarge always rants at us about proper weapon maintenance._ The soldier swore for the umpteenth time as he desperately tried to clear a jam in his rifle. Under fire from relentless Orre soldiers, pinned with his back against a tree, all the while wrestling with the inner mechanisms of a Pattern 1853 Enfield that was satisfied with being little more than a club. His entire body rattled to the vibrations that emanated from the ground as Orre soldiers, and their beasts of war, tore through the dense Fortree vegetation like rampaging tyranitar. _That's no surprise. Heck, rampaging tyranitar are probably standard issue where they come from._

Every three minutes or so there would be a tremendous bellow. The Orre aerial regiments unleashed constant bombardment, flattening the opposition from the sky before picking off whatever's left with their ground forces. It was hellish; hundreds of thousands of Hoenn servicemen lost their lives in the infernos, whilst hundreds of thousands more were left paranoid, even petrified by them. Shell shock was nearly as common as the flu in the Hoenn ranks.

The young trooper flinched instinctively as chunks of dirt and debris were hurled over his face. That last explosion, barely ten feet from where he hid, tore down more of the forest that had characterized the harmony the Fortree inhabitants shared with nature. He wasn't sure if he could hear anymore; the shockwave from the blast could have easily torn through his ear drums, and adrenaline was the best painkiller; he wouldn't notice the loss of such delicate tissue. He was deaf to anything at the moment even if his hearing still existed; the air was not only alive, but _trashing_ violently with the rings, echoes and crackles of war. Sight was impaired as well. The nearby flames cloaked much of the action that took place around him with towering pillars of smoke and ash. The immense heat distorted his long vision with semi-mirages anyway; it was impossible to capture any details further than a few meters.

As the young man finally cleared the jam, he reached over to his remaining reserves of ammunition. He turned around and took a deep breath steadying his rifle on the gnarled root of the tree. Steeling himself, he reminded himself of his duty: to save Fortree or die trying. Everyone in the defense, from the grunts like him to the generals had believed this was a hapless defense. Everyone thought there was nothing stopping the stampeding tauros that was the Orre invasion force. But every single one of them would be damned if they didn't give their lives to prove themselves wrong. And so he did, as the moment the air whistled out of his smoke-filled lungs, a bullet took its place.

* * *

General Irvin Rowling watched over the horror that took place. Nothing they did even minutely slowed down the Orre war machine. But he wasn't going to leave it at that. That would be unacceptable. The Orre forces have laid waste to over half of Hoenn already and should Fortree fall, Lilycove would soon be in Orre's blood stained sights. He turned impatiently to his Kadabra, awaiting the telepathic message from it that would hopefully announce the arrival of Fortree's last glimmer of hope.

"_Not yet"_ was all the Kadabra could telepathically muster, as it too witnessed the brutal deconstruction of Hoenn's most peaceful city. The general had been relieved to hear from Kadabra that Richard Schaffer and the best of Hoenn's aerial divisions would arrive to bolster the defense. However, that was three hours ago, and he began contemplating the failure of their arrival. He did what he could to stall the invasion as much as possible, but as the casualties mounted, there is little time left for Fortree.

"_Not yet."_ The Kadabra's projected thought answered Rowling's repeated question. Rowling feared the flight group had been pulled to aid another skirmish, or were altogether destroyed in an ambush en route to Fortree. But a little part of him, the fan if you will, reminded him that the most celebrated aerial battle masters in Hoenn's history would pull through.

"_Not yet."_ Rowling began contemplating the retreat order. Their forces were outgunned and outmatched. There was no use in mounting casualties in an unwinnable battle. They would at least be able to regroup and put up a stronger resistance at Lilycove, whilst the Orre troops wasted time securing Fortree and pillaging its resources. He would leave this battle a failure of a leader, but if it meant buying Hoenn more time, he would gladly choose disgrace. Besides, his peers understood the enormity of his task. It would be more self-inflicted guilt than anything. And there was definitely no disgrace in living to fight another day.

"_Not yet."_ Yes. Retreat sounds like a good idea. Rowling had planned the retreat procedures beforehand; he only needed to announce the order to his Kadabra to have it distributed to every officer in Fortree. All he had to do was give the word. He turned to his Kadabra, hopelessly searching for guidance in his lifelong companion, but the Psi Pokémon could offer no thoughts of advice. He too realized the hopelessness in the situation; it was visible in his tense posture, with brows so furrowed they crinkled the normally flawless star symbol on his forehead. His eyes were locked onto the floor, as if in deep concentration. One did not have to be a telepath to read this Kadabra's mind, an ironic reversal that highlighted the direness of the situation. That made up Rowling's mind. And as he opened his mouth, he was interrupted, telepathically.

"_General, Richard Schaffer is here."_ And it was confirmed as fast moving shadows cascaded over his makeshift bunker, charging straight into the enemy. Kadabra's posture visibly loosened, his eyes now peering up, gazing at the spectacular explosions that announced Schaffer's arrival into the battle. His squadron of flying aces quickly tore through the enemy mounts, launching energized projectiles and swiping at them with glowing appendages before passing by and turning around to begin another attack run. Loud shouts of exhilaration and euphoria rang through the air as one of the squadron's members jubilated in the annihilation of another Orre flier. Psychic messages from his Kadabra flooded his mind, with triumphant shouts from men in the front lines relaying their improved fortune on the battlefield.

Rowling couldn't help but shout too. And why shouldn't they be yelling in delight? The pride of the Hoenn Armed Forces had the entire aerial attack force fleeing for their lives as they capitalized on their unexpected, although somewhat delayed, entrance. Rowling smiled as he looked through the window of his bunker. As the tide of battle finally shifted to the Fortree's advantage, the general dropped his hand to his side, unaware that his thumb and index finger had his brow in a vice grip, due to his stress. _We might win this now._

Almost in sync with his thought, his Kadabra questioned, _"Are you still considering retreat, General?"_

Rowling smirked at the question. Retreat? Whose stupid idea was that? "Not a chance."

* * *

The last of Orre's bombers received a violent acquaintance with the forest floor as Schaffer's flygon tore out its midsection with a dragon pulse. The aerial battle master, satisfied with the termination of another threat to Fortree, turned his mount around to rejoin his squadron mates in their standard 'V' formation.

"Yeeeee Haaaawwwwww! We got 'em good, eh cap?" Schaffer ignored the somewhat excited cries of his number four, Lloyd, as he craned his neck around to scan his surroundings. Tremendous grey plumes of smoke and ravaged Fortree undergrowth characterized the Orre bombers' destructive handiwork, and the least the flight lead felt he could do was make sure they were all either flying home in retreat, or now part of their deathly 'masterpiece.' His eyes found none in the sky. Their threat seemed averted. Rainer echoed his view: "Looks like we've cleared the skies, Schaff." The flight lead, ever cautious, glanced towards the rest of his squadron for confirmation. Their eyes roamed the landscape in search for any elusive Orre fliers. With no one spotting anything out of place, the flight lead was finally satisfied. _Better ten eyes than two._ "Looks like you're right," Schaffer replied. _That was easy. Guess the Orre bombers are cowards._ The aerial battle master smiled._ Smart cowards though._

The flight lead now turned his attention to a garrison of Orre troops. They seemed oblivious to the loss of their aerial support, pounding mercilessly at the remnants of Hoenn's defensive lines whilst being completely exposed to the sky. "Let's just tear through a few ground troops and call it day then." Schaffer turned around to begin a strafing run on them.

The Hoenn flight lead poured out streams of flames into the Orre soldiers, annihilating their offensive and buying the Hoenn defense breathing room._ That's right. Taste dragon pul –_

– when a sudden yelp from his right caught his attention. He instinctively tore his eyes off his intended target and locked them on the source of the cry.

It was his number five, who was weaving from side to side desperately trying to avoid streams of fire. Her assailant followed up the salvo by forming glowing rings around his body, solidifying into a hail of pointed stones that launched directly at her. Amelia was forced upwards to dodge the combined fury of the stone edge and flamethrower attacks – right into the path of the attacker. She was sent tumbling down with a quick slash from its wings.

The ferocity of the attack had caught the entire flight unawares, and the assailant went into a suicidal acceleration, straight into the rest of the group.

The entire flight scattered, dodging the manic charge by the enemy flier. Using his momentum the assailant rocketed upwards and flipped over, sending him in a blazing dive at Robin. The young number 3 was forced to break right, separating him from the rest of the flight. The attacker pursued relentlessly, pressuring the Hoenn flier into a mistake. He had his teeth clenched into Robin's tail, and was not letting go.

_It's him. It's _him.

"Lloyd! Help Robin. Rainer and I'll cover you!" Schaffer commanded, who was replied with nods from both his number 2 and number 4. _Everyone attacks together. He's no singling anyone of us out._

The attacker was now lining up for another salvo of fire, when the more yells rang through the sky. Lloyd's war cry seemed to work; Aquila had relented on his pursuit on Robin and now had his attention set on Schaffer's loud number four. With two vigorous, almost convulsive flaps of its wings, Aquila's mount halted all forward momentum and now barreled towards Lloyd. His mount widened its maw, preparing to shoot flames –

– only to be intercepted by Rainer. The courageous number two bashed the side of his charizard against Aquila's beast, sending both tumbling towards the Hoenn undergrowth. Both aerial masters recovered soon after though, and engaged each other in a 3 dimensional joust over the scarred forests of Fortree.

Each maneuvered into a firing position and loosed immense flames that would have singed the other into charcoal, had the other not jerked himself out of the way. They then spun around each other, attempting to outturn the other. Each spiral brought them closer to the ground.

* * *

_Come on Schaff, I can't keep this up. _Rainer was now losing the dogfight against Aquila, the latter closing in on to the former's six o'clock – prime attacking position. A few more spirals would leave Rainer, despite his dogfighting experience and talent, at the mercy of Orre's greatest ace. And Aquila knew it. Every subsequent blast of flames launched from Aquila's mount seemed to increase in intensity, as if rehearsing for the killer salvo._ Schaff, damn it where are you?_

* * *

His musings were answered when several orbs of pulsating blue energy flew towards Aquila, once again putting the Orre ace on the defensive. Schaffer roared into battle, his flygon hurling dragon pulse after dragon pulse after dragon pulse at Rainer's assailant.

Aquila, possibly sensing his inability to beat both in a turning battle, nose-dived at break-neck speed into the Fortree undergrowth, specifically into one of the massive fires that raged across the ground. Rainer and Schaffer pursued. The Orre ace, once again using the demonic speed and agility of his mount, suddenly began spinning violently. He continued to accelerate into the dive whilst performing the bizarre maneuver, and spun even more vigorously as he neared the flames, kicking up flaming debris as he approached it. The maniacal ace completely enveloped himself – and the two Hoenn aces – in a storm of embers and burning ash.

* * *

_One. _

_Two._

_Three ._

Robin looked on at the horrific spectacle taking place. The flames that ravaged the Fortree undergrowth exploded in size as the three aces hurtled into it. Both he and Lloyd could not believe the loss of Hoenn's two best aces would have been so swift, but the reality was grim.

_Four._

_Five._

Robin squinted on the sixth second as he spotted movement from the smoke. "Captain, is that y_ – _

– Aquila burst out of the flames and charged straight at Lloyd, the immense speed extinguishing a few lingering embers that rolled across his back. _Oh no. _His mount's talons latched onto Lloyd's neck and shoulders, ripping him off his Pidgeot. The Orre aerial master then launched himself into another insane spin, a death roll that brutally snapped Lloyd's neck. Aquila's mount dropped the former number four into the Hoenn undergrowth before turning towards Robin.

There was nowhere to run. Aquila tore through Robin's body with a stone edge attack before flying off into the dusk. The tide of battle shifted back to the Orre attackers.

* * *

_Near Daybreak Town, Sinnoh, 1st December 2005_

"_The fall of Fortree City and the destruction of Hoenn's 21__st__ Air Division marked the end of Hoenn counterattack. Lilycove City is also in Orre sights. I don't know how we can recover after such devastating loss, but Orre will not take Lilycove. I will guarantee that."_

21:30. McCann replaced General Rowling's final entry to the Fortree invasion into his folder. _Astounding, truly astounding._ The elderly aerial trainer, a retired aerial champion in Sinnoh who was undefeated for well over a decade, remained awestruck by the immense skill displayed by aerial battle masters of old. The Orre Uprising represented the pinnacle of aerial battles in history, and to read actual documentation of such brilliant dogfights was an honor experienced by only a handful of people in the world. _And for good reason._

Leaving his private study, McCann ventured outside his home to take a breath of the night air. Unique in shape, the valley McCann lives by never fails to bring strong air currents funneling through it. That, coupled with the sea of forest that surrounds his abode, guarantees a truly refreshing experience by simply standing outside and enjoying the clean air.

It is also a perfect place to recollect one's thoughts after a tiring day, search for inspiration, or contemplate the future. Every now and then, McCann would let his scizor take night flights, just to enjoy the experience. On those nights, he is certain even the metal bug loses the self-control and discipline encoded into every steel-type Pokémon's DNA. McCann smiled. No matter how cool or calm he is, even Scizor jumps for joy if it meant enjoying a midnight flight here.

_Tonight's wind is truly amazing! I ought to call Maya. She'd love to see Chimecho and Scizor fly in such gorgeous conditi-_

In one sudden movement McCann was jerked off his feet and slammed onto a wall. Before his mind could barely even register what was going on, McCann's body lay in two bloody piles on the bottom of the valley. The assailant, wasted no time in leaping back on to his mount, and whilst thumbing a shard of gold, flew off into the dusk.


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

_Route 120, Near Fortree City, 2nd December 2005_

_16:41_

"I'll get whoever did this! I'll get our raptors and tear him limb from limb! I'll, I'll…"

"Mr Falkner, calm down! Please!"

The setting sun cast an eerie glow over the entire clearing, highlighting every little bump and crevice that riddled the surface of the clearing. Each was a tiny beacon of light in itself, as if presenting itself as a possible clue to the tragic mystery at hand. Route 120 was normally a quiet and unassuming stretch of land traversed by people only wishing to cross from Lilycove to Fortree or back. Today it was different. Today the route, near the border it shared with Fortree City to be exact, was bustling with activity.

Falkner's chest heaved up and down rapidly as he gasped for breath. His face was flushed beyond recognition; surrounded by tears that streamed down from blood shot eyes. His body continued to trash violently as he struggled against the grip the policemen had around his arms. As local law enforcement struggled to restrain the unstable Violet City gym leader, Winona could only stand speechless from the side-lines.

She was enjoying a morning stroll only a few hours ago when a bright glint caught her attention. She now wished she it never did. As Winona approached the unnatural shine which emanated from the grassy growth that surrounded the path she walked along, her hand reached up to muffle her sharp intake of breath. The glint came from the polished surface of a pokéball, in the firm grips of one of Johto's greatest Flying trainers. Falkner's father.

His body lay limp on the side of the clearing boxed away by yellow police tape, his blue hair caressed softly by a light fall breeze. His pale blue attire, a reflection of the avian trainer's love for flying Pokémon and strikingly similar to his son's own garbs, rested softly over his body. His face was calm; his cheeks were relaxed, his forehead uncreased, his brow unfurrowed. A thin line stretched across the avian trainer's neck, now reduced to a red black shade beneath the dimming orange hues of the Hoenn sun.

"Hrnnghh..."

Falkner stopped trashing. His body tensed, and after one final heave against the locked arms of the Fortree police force, he collapsed to his knees. His red, worn eyes finally shrunk to thin slits, his heavy breathing withering into short, disconnected gulps for air. Weakened by despair, his body bent forward, supported by fragile arms. For what seemed like an eon, the twenty year old gym leader, the idol of thousands, the owner of a reputation that permeated through the entire pokémon world as a confident master of battle, broke down and sobbed.

Winona was utterly shaken. The Fortree gym leader was due to meet up with Falkner that day; a meeting of leisure months after their last series of friendly battles. Instead, she happened on a murder that was beyond words to describe. Falkner's father was an idol to the avian trainer community across the world; his insights into bird Pokémon - trainer relations were second to none and his competence in aerial battle rivalled by few. He was respected amongst elite trainers alike as well; Champion Lance was particularly fond of him.

But to his son, Falkner's father was so much more than an idol. He was a mentor, a source of pride, a guiding beacon-

-and now, just a painful memory.

Winona peered down at Falkner. She was three years older than her childhood friend, and was thus always a big sister figure to him whenever he needed help, before he became the great gym leader he was. They conversed teasingly and freely, with a camaraderie built over years. But now she felt helpless. Winona had never lost a close family member to cold murder. She didn't know what to say, or how to comfort him. As the policemen who restrained the broken gym leader retreated to join the search for clues, Winona crouched down to him. She placed a light hand on his upper arm, a soft indication of her presence.

"Falkner, I…"

She once again found herself lost for words. What could you say to someone who just lost his greatest hero?

"D-d-ddon't start Winona, please." A soft whisper escaped Falkner's trembling mouth. "I… I just need some time alone."

Winona was slightly taken aback by the remark, but, with a slight nod, she granted his request and left him to himself. She walked over to the body, her head bowed low to the ground. Winona intended to pay her final respects to the great flying type trainer and man she truly admired throughout her childhood, and well into her years as the flying type gym leader of Fortree City. On the way though, she was interrupted by her name.

"Miss Winona?"

The Fortree Gym leader snapped out of her musings and turned to the source of the voice. An International Police agent, whom she figured was tasked with solving this murder stood before her.

A man who appeared to be in his forties, Looker (for some reason he had refused to provide Winona with his real name) stood tall and firm. Draped over his straight shoulders was a neatly trimmed brown overcoat, which Winona found odd considering Hoenn's warm climate. His sharp brown eyes barrelled straight into the young gym leader's own, as if assessing her character. Winona was almost disturbed by the Interpol agent's critical gaze.

"Yes?"

Looker spoke with a deliberate, controlled voice, his pause after each word lingering slightly longer than usual. "Despite the current circumstances, I regret to inform you that I must leave immediately. Another murder has occurred in Sinnoh, near Daybeak Town. Interpol suspects it may be related to this one and another two bodies found in Slateport City two days ago. I have been reassigned there immediately. My colleagues will attempt to gather as much as information as they can from here. "

He gave Winona a curt nod, and before she could respond, he walked off.

Winona mulled over the peculiar investigator's words.

_Two bodies in Slateport, and another in Sinnoh. What on Earth is going on?_

* * *

_Near Daybreak Town, Sinnoh, 2nd December 2005_

_20:35 Sinnoh Standard Time_

_It is lovely actually, quite lovely indeed._

Strong winds bellowed through the valley, sweeping up leaves from the dense forest below. They channelled through between the tooth shaped rock formations that rose from the valley floor. The wind, although mostly dissipated by the thick collection of trees still permeated the forest, and was now fluttering around a certain Interpol agent's overcoat. Looker's flashlight penetrated the inky darkness of Sinnoh twilight as he tracked through the dense forest. He stopped at a rock face marked off by yellow police tape. Several policemen from the nearby Daybreak town surrounded the area, with the local inspector collecting tissue samples from the body.

Or what's left of it.

"Ah, agent Looker I presume?" the inspector enquired. A short, round man in his late forties, he had a warm smile and stretched out a hand in greeting.

Looker walked past him and crouched down to the body. McCann's empty eyes stared back at him; the man seemed to have been caught completely unawares by the attack. His arms were stretched out across the ground and his head slumped up against the side of the rock face. His lower half was cast some a few meters away, connected to the rest of his body only by copious amounts of crimson-black. Looker scanned the body, unflinching.

"You gathered some information from the body, yes? What?" Looker announced hastily.

The inspector shook off Looker's no nonsense attitude like water off a psyduck's back. Everyone back in Interpol HQ was like that anyways.

"Quite a mess. As you can see McCann's body has been literally ripped in half. From what I can gather that was the cause of death, especially due to the fact that the body had been found here. I mean, who'd take the effort to cut an already dead body in half before throwing it off the side of a cliff?"

Looker started once more, but this time replying with his deliberate elocution. "Yes, the apparent lack of contusions other than post-mortem wounds caused by the fall suggests your theory is correct."

His gaze drifted across the rest of the body.

"Casual attire. He was planning to stay home for awhile. Not much else. Have your men bag the body and transport it to Interpol in Sunnyshore. An autopsy is the best way forward. Have you found anything of interest around the body? Any clues? Threat notes?"

"Nope. McCann wasn't carrying anything important. Nothing was taken in his house either. From the location of his body and blood stains on the ground we have determined he was killed just a short distance from his house, so if the killer wanted to take anything, he would have. "

"All of his pokémon accounted for?" Looker questioned.

"Yes. It appears to be a random act of murder. "

_But it's not. Two decapitated bird keepers and a dead flying type_ _trainer occurring in three days? A kingdra is more likely to drown. And McCann cut in half…Brutal, very brutal. Necessarily brutal? That, we are not sure._

"McCann was known for being an air battle master was he not?" Looker questioned.

"Yeap. He's almost a legend around here. It'll be a huge blow to everyone in Daybreak Town when his death is announced."

"Hmm. We have a serial killer targeting flying type trainers. Have you questioned McCann's relatives and possible witnesses? "

"His granddaughter Maya is the only remaining family member he had. She's too distraught right now to be questioned. The poor girl has been through a lot. McCann lived in quite an isolated place. It's unlikely we'll find any witnesses around here. Hey! Where are you off to?"

Looker marched off towards the nearest route out of the valley. "To talk to Maya."

The inspector shook his head as he watched his headstrong counterpart continue to walk away.

_Darn HQ folk. His _'talk'_ is going to traumatise the poor girl even more._

* * *

Maya was sat on a bench and stared at the floor speechless. Her head was bent low, her hands clasped together, as if in prayer. Her brown locks, normally bouncing with happiness now dangled limp down her face.

Looker's eyes were locked on her, waiting for a response from his question. There was none.

"Maya, when was the last time you saw your grandfather?" he repeated.

Maya remained speechless. Her eyes were wide open, but it was as if Looker was talking to her whilst she was unconscious.

Looker was undeterred by her quiet state. His deliberate speech did not waver. "Maya, please answer me. It will help bring your grandfather's killer to justice. I cannot proceed without your account on the matter."

Scizor stood by Maya's side, his eyes locked on Looker. A pincer rested affectionately on the twelve year old's shoulder. He too felt the pain of losing McCann, his trainer, but held firm. If anything, it was because of his natural Steel type resilience, and if for anyone, it was for the young girl. The pokémon was a loyal one, and would stay strong if it meant protecting Maya.

Abandoned without a guardian, the twelve year old had few to turn to. Her grandfather was her sole protector and despite the promises of her aunt taking care of her, Maya remained quiet as ever. She was petrified. Looker was going nowhere with this.

_I am giving the killer more time to plan his next move, with every moment that I waste, as I try to get the girl to talk._

Looker sighed. She gave him no choice.

He stood up and walked away. A moment later Looker returned with two glasses of water.

"Would you like a drink?" he asked.

No response.

Looker drank his, and set it on a table. He walked over to the young girl and crouched down to her level.

No response.

"I am very sorry, Maya."

Looker raised the glass, and splashed it all over Maya's face!

The girl recoiled in shock and shook her head form to dry off her hair, glaring daggers at the Interpol agent. Scizor glared even more daggers. Looker swore he heard growling coming from the metal bug.

"Please Maya, when was the last time you saw your grandfather?"

As she wiped her face with Looker's offered hankerchief, she answered the question and all of the ones that followed, albeit through gritted teeth.

* * *

_Somewhere in Hoenn_

_21:35_

Fingers rapped at each key in a brisk, choppy manner. Hands jerked from left and right, back and forth across the keyboard. Feet kicked against polished mahogany. A head suddenly jerked forward, scattering locks of hair across the pianist's face. His body crouched lower, shoulders shifted forward, fingers curved into hooks, and feet hovered over the piano's pedals. His brow furrowed; his eyes shut. The corners of his mouth stretched up across his face, pulled into a tortured, twisted smile. The pianist's wrists rose up, poised to strike the keyboard. And he did.

Once.

Twice.

Thrice.

Four times.

He tensed his body up, lifting his wrists again, poised to strike the keyboard once again. And….

He stood up.

The pianist grabbed his golden shard, which had been cast atop the cold white keys. He rolled it back and forth, before grasping it tightly and lifting it into sight. With his contorted grin cemented firmly across his face, the pianist eyes examined the gold surface, twinkling in concert with the glorious sheen of the metal. Tearing his gaze, almost reluctantly, from the splendid shine of the shard, he turned to face a small wooden desk just a few paces away. On it laid two brown leather folders, both containing documentation of the aerial battles of the Orre Uprising.

His grin pulled tighter.

The man reached across to the wooden desk and seized an aged, wrinkled piece of paper from one of the folders. An old Hoenn map was scribbled across its surface. Two pencilled lines, starting from Route 113, cut across the map, detailing paths taken by the Orre invaders in the war 140 years ago. One went down the west side of Hoenn, before ending at a circled location about a third of the way down. The estranged pianist scored along the line with his finger, almost tearing through the fragile paper before the line stopped at a circled location. It appeared to be a rocky region comprised off various jagged hills, labelled as the Meteor Falls. He tapped it a few times, and stared at it for what seemed like an eternity, before lifting his finger and placing it on the arrowed line.

The pianist traced along the line as it stretched straight down the middle of the map, slashing Hoenn into two pieces. His finger passed over many circles, each marking key cities conquered by the Orre invaders in the war. Beginning with Mauville, they continued through to Rustboro, Slateport and Fortree. The pianist traced along these circles as well, rounding them multiple times before he proceeded to the next. The line turned east and stretched across Hoenn, before his finger ended at Lilycove City. His finger lifted, and returned to circle Fortree.

The pianist locked his gaze on the city.

It was the city where Aquila finally disappeared, after they won the battle. It was the beginning of the end for Orre. He was sure. The city was…is special, he knows. No matter. Nothing will stop Aquila's vengeance. Nothing.

140 years on, the Hoenn skies will once again rot away.

_Yes, yes, hmm, yes. Aha!_

His grin stretched wider than ever.


	4. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

_Somewhere in Hoenn, 4th December 2005_

23:48

He tilted a wide rimmed fedora over his eyes and adjusted the collar on his dark grey overcoat. He stuffed his right hand into his pocket, and thumbed his shard of gold from the inside it, whilst pushing the door open with his left hand. A creak signalled the man's entrance. It was considerably drowned out by the ruckus in the pub though, as the occupants threw their dignity onto the ground and stomped on it, _hard, _whilst under the numbing spell of alcohol. The pub was poorly lit; other than a few searing bright lights over the bar it was pretty much shrouded in darkness. Which worked out fine for the people inside; many of them would rather not be seen.

The pub was a slime pit of Hoenn's underworld; the thriving band of drug dealers, pokémon smugglers and gangsters that eke out a living in the power vacuum left behind by the destruction of Team Magma and Aqua. Both criminal organisations had virtually wiped out the underworld in their respective bids to gain control over land and sea, before their destruction at the hands of a young trainer. Complete annihilation of the lowlifes of Hoenn is nigh impossible however, as like striking a blob of mercury with a hammer, the scattered droplets recollect into one considerable entity in time.

The man staved off the invasive aroma of a combination of stale beer, tobacco smoke and perspiration. He ignored the sticky floor and the hideous piano playing in the background (he ought to know; he is a pianist after all). He ignored the wails and gesticulations of overzealous drunkards aimed at the horrible pianist, who seemed to echo his feelings towards the music. His destination: a round table located in a partially sheltered booth, blocked off by two massive bodyguards.

He grinned widely.

He tilted his fedora lower and took out his shard of gold, flashing it at one of the bodyguards. The bloke nodded, recognising the visitor. He shifted to the side to grant the visitor access to the booth, permitting him to sit across a man possessing considerable girth.

The man radiated arrogance and a perception of control, twiddling a champagne glass in his fat stubby fingers. Gold rings encompassed three of his pathetically bloated digits, matched by another gold ring, this time pierced through his left nostril. He practically permeated the surroundings with an air of indulgence, for not only the visitor, but for all the other occupants to experience. After all, he had half of the parasites in the pub on his payroll and was more than happy to remind them of it. He was the leader of one of Hoenn's largest gang and a lord of the Hoenn underworld; Leon Malone.

"So you's the chump who's trying to sell me a gold mine in Mt. Coronet eh?" The bloated man took notice of the other's fedora. "What you's hiding under that honchkrow crest anyway? Girly eyelashes? Or is it just one of them bold fashion statements?" Malone's voice was laced with venom. The visitor grinned wider.

The visitor shook his head, barely forcing down a snicker whilst doing so. In a frail, high pitched voice, he replied: "No, nonono _sir_... Errhmm… Excuse me, but I'm a little….umm… _nervouss._" The visitor flickered his tongue in an almost serpent-like manner on the last word. The gang leader was visibly disgusted by the visitor's hiss. The visitor, on the other hand, tried to regulate his overstimulated cheek and jaw muscles from bursting into an all-out laughing fit. Malone was not amused, but before he could fire off another insult, the visitor continued talking.

"I'm not trying to sell you anything in fact, sirrrr," he slurred. He was flushed red trying to hold back his snickers now.

Malone's temper was wearing thin. Here he was, wasting his valuable time with a laughing lunatic "-the hell is wrong with you? And whad'ya mean no?"

And that's when he broke into fits of laughter.

"I'm interested in asking if, errrr…you would mind if I, I dunno… Take over your gang? Hmm? Pretty please?"

Malone's layers of fat all shifted cohesively across his body as if a shockwave emanating from his face resonated through him. He had enough of this. The gang leader jabbed his finger towards a bodyguard on the right. "You! Get this whack job outta my sights, NOW!"

The hysterical visitor turned to the bodyguard, and in a provocatively similar fashion, yelled "You! How about no?"

Malone was utterly enraged by the gall of the hysterical man. His rage was replaced with complete shock almost immediately afterwards though, when he realised the bodyguard actually _listened_. The other bodyguard was similarly gobsmacked, and immediately realised the danger his boss and he were in. But before he could so much as grab a pokéball a wall slammed into him.

* * *

He was caught in a vortex of swirling white, brown and black smears. Flashes of light blinked sporadically across his field of vision. Dust irritated his nasal passages, inducing coughs from the gang lord. His head was spinning and his ears were ringing. _What the hell happened? _Malone coughed out the remaining dust from his lungs and slowly, albeit painfully, heaved his tremendous bulk from under pieces of plaster. A huge hole met his sight as he peered up towards the side of the pub from which the blast came from. As his blurred vision sharpened to relative clarity, he managed to look around and scan the area. His loyal bodyguard was sprawled across the floor, half the side of the pub piled on top of his body. The gang leader jerked his head from side to side, desperately looking around in fear for his own safety. His trembling gaze fell on the occupants of the pub, people whom he paid to serve and protect him. Instead of tripping over themselves to rush to his aid however, the lowlifes continued to drown themselves, paying no heed to their injured overlord. Bile rose up Malone's throat. _That's it. Everybody in this damned pub is dead. _

Before he could declare it in his signature _finesse _however, the wind was beaten up out of his lungs by a blood curdling display of animalistic ferocity. The globe of fat now found himself pinned against a wall, breathless, defenceless and hapless. Two absolutely bizarrely coloured eyes were locked on him. Yellow irises ringed by inky black scleras pierced into Malone's own stress swollen eyes. A jagged appendage that protruded from the beast's scythe like forelegs kept the gang leader trapped against the crumbling plaster of his partially demolished pub. A deep growl, almost venomous in nature completed the nightmare. Malone was at the mercy of a garchomp.

The visitor walked over to him, treacherous bodyguard by his side. He pulled his fedora hat off allowing the petrified gang leader full view of his face. Scared to the brink of losing consciousness, Malone could only partially hear the visitor's last cackle:

"Can I have your gang? I don't think I have to say please anymore. Ahaha aHAha AhHohaaAAAheeeHAH!"

* * *

Thumping sounds began emanating from beyond the darkness. Fear washed across his soul. He was absolutely helpless, unable to reach forward to grab anything to defend himself with, since there wasn't anything to grab on to. The thumping grew louder, growing in clarity whilst doing so. The thumps melted into crisp footsteps now. And suddenly two bright orbs appeared in the darkness. They were yellow eyes. And a smile appeared. Malone wanted to scream.

A tug on his skull brought him back to consciousness. With the burlap sack removed from his head, light pierced through his swollen eyelids. Malone was greeted by a piercing headache, but that wasn't half of it. After his awakening, the full of brunt of his injuries began to reveal itself. His left arm tingled with a numbing sensation, massively swollen and bruised beyond recognition. Malone cringed as crimson liquid burned its way down the open wounds on his right leg. Malone coughed out the liquid as well. He tried twisting his body around, but was met with tough rope chaffing against his lacerations. He desperately tried shaking his legs, but, as with his arms and body, they were bound to a chair.

"Hello, hEllo, heLlo, ' ello, err…HEELLLoOO!"

His clouded vision managed to pick up movement around him. And that piercing call was unmistakeable to him now.

"Err….hi?" the same voice called out again. Frail and high pitched as before. Malone willed himself to look up at him. What he saw was a bright yellow jagged cone in the grips of the madman, waving across his field of vision. It was as if he was trying to grab Malone's attention. Satisfied with a reaction from the gang leader, the hysteric got up from his crouched position and stood up.

"Ahhh good… Now that you're up, we can discuss the erhmm…..matter at hand. I need your gang for a little project of mine. Oh, do excuse me, I have a call."

The hysteric pivoted around, reaching into his overcoat to pull what seemed like a cell phone. Raising it to his ear, he jokingly tilted his head up and drummed his fingers against the side of his leg, before answering, with a poisonous "Hi." He seemed engrossed in the phone call, even gathering pieces of paper on a nearby desk to write out some notes from the conversation. But as he reached for a pen, he realised his right hand was still firmly clasped around his gold shard. He grinned widely.

"Umm….Would you err….hold this for me for a moment, aha?" The hysteric blurted out, indicating his gold shard with a jerk of his head.

Before Malone could register what he meant by that though, he was stabbed in the arm with the gold shard.

"Thanks!"

The crimson fluid began flowing out of the new wound, staining the fibrous binds that held him in place. Malone was well beyond his pain threshold by now anyways. He began fading back into unconsciousness.

The hysteric yelled out loud. "Hey, err, ya know what? You can keep it. A _souvenir_!"

His grin, eclipsing any gengar's would have been enough to send any sane man running for the hills. And now, by buying off most of the Malone's thugs he had the gang leader and a good portion of the Hoenn underworld in his clutches. But the madman was not satisfied. He wanted absolute chaos. He wanted to see Hoenn crumble under his presence. He wanted to dominate the skies that lapped at Hoenn's land from its East bank all the way to its West. He wanted to petrify his enemies before they would even consider opposition.

But there are few things that needed to be done. He had to learn of how the great Aquila failed, where Orre's last stand took place, and why it ended in disaster. _A little day trip to the museum is all_. He had to eliminate the final purists of flight from Hoenn. And he had to cause mass hysteria easily and quickly.

* * *

Inky blackness engulfed him. His senses were overwhelmed by such an absolute darkness; sight was useless, a deafening silence pervaded his ears, touch was useless – he could not feel anything, as if his skin was disconnected from the rest of his trembling body. His mind, wired to follow and supplement an insatiable greed characteristic of a man of his stature, could not find peace in such an empty sensationless realm.

Cold oblivion was a greedy man's worst fear.

Suddenly a prickly feeling began on his fingers, and it soon matured into a burning sensation. It spread across his entire body like wildfire, relinquishing the grip of oblivion and filling the void with fire. Malone wanted to trash around, but he continued to feel a detachment from the physical world. He could not move his body and thus could not give in to the writhe inducing agony he experienced.

Suddenly though, the sensation was soothed by a new one, one of flowing water. Malone's mind relaxed ever so slightly, as the inferno subsided, giving in to calm streams. But it did not stop there. Soon he experienced building pressure around him, and the tingle of a water line slowly rising from his toes to his neck. Malone was now subject to a tremendous drowning sensation. The pressure intensified as the tingling water line now rose up and above his head. It kept mounting, and soon he felt the force of water pushing down his airways. But before the torture was complete, it subsided as well.

Malone's mind was breaking under such incredible psychological agony. And it wasn't over. A third and final sensation began, and that was of tremendous winds battering his body. Malone could not take much more. A sudden growling, deeper and more intense than any sound made by known pokémon, begun ringing through his cranium. Accompanying this tremendous bellow was a dreaded feeling of a presence, a higher being bearing down on his wretched soul. And with a tremendous roar of countless of decibels, it was over.

* * *

The hysteric was interrupted from his deadly musings to find his _guest_ trashing in convulsions. He set his yellow gaze on the bound gang leader, who seemed to be in the grips of massive hallucinations. He was pleading for mercy, swinging his head violently from side to side as if desperately trying to get away from a monster. And, all of a sudden, it stopped.

The hysteric noticed something queer as he died. The gang leader had suffered a crushing of his psyche as well as physical death. But what he was interested in was what caused it. He approached the body of Leon Malone and noticed the gold shard he jabbed into his arm, causing him to literally leap into the air in glee. He knew what it was. And it was right under his nose. _My lovely gold. Why didn't you show me what you could do?_

"Quite peculiar indeed. Regardless I want a weaponised compound of this hallucinogen within the week. I will have samples of the metal ready for you. Oh and prepare a raid on the Mauville National Museum and Archives. I am in need of some history books." The hysteric may not like talking in a classy, _civilised,_ manner, but he was certainly capable of it. After all, it is who he is.

For now.

He grinned widely.

* * *

_Interpol HQ, Mauville City, 9th December 2005_

_18:30_

The overhead fan creaked and whistled softly; its blades glided effortlessly through the humid Hoenn air. Its cooling breezes playfully flickered at tiny scraps of paper and dust on the floor, permitting them to dance and swirl in beautiful arcs across it. Some, the more adventurous ones, were lifted into the air by the shifting breezes, and now pirouetted and somersaulted in excitement, as if they were pidgey released from a cage. They were dimly lit by the setting sun that phased through half open blinds. They were also shaded by circling silhouettes of the fan blades. The subtle play of light made the scene all the more spellbinding, mystical, magni-

Looker turned off the fan. It was messing around with the pieces of paper on the desk anyways.

_This guy, who could he be?_

There were no witnesses to the crimes. No useable fingerprint marks at the scenes. No DNA left behind. No leads. No other clues. No suspects, no known motive.

Looker swivelled around on his chair to face a stack of paper loosely bundled together by raffia string. His index finger and thumb clawed at his brow in frustration, his sharp gaze now directed at documents from the analysis of materials collected from the murder scene. He had read and memorised every painful detail, trying to find a lead, any lead. Something out of place like a footprint in the mud, random graffiti, a hair from a pokémon, a greasy stain, whatever. But there was none. This guy was immaculate. He scanned the autopsy reports once again. The only possible leads he could draw from came from those reports. And even then he was grasping at straws. All the murders were of trainers who specialised in flying type pokémon: the Rickenbacker bird keepers, Falkner's father and McCann. That was enough to warrant undercover police protecting Winona and Falkner, two probable targets in the future. But simple bodyguards will not solve the case.

_Deeper. I'll just have to look deeper._

His eyes drifted over photos of the bodies. It was obvious that there was a connection between them: all murders were also committed by a horizontal slash to the neck. That was the abnormality he could draw upon. Well, all except McCann's.

Looker leaned back on his chair, grabbing a photo whilst doing so. It was a picture of the McCann body. Looker focused his gaze on that photo now, lost in thought. Why display unusual brutality in killing McCann? Slitting his throat like the others would have been more than sufficient. It could have been just an unintentionally brutal method to obtaining the same end, especially if one was caught in the heat of the moment. But it is unlikely one would struggle as much to obtain a clean kill when your target was just an old man, especially compared to your other hits. The Rickenbacker brothers were in prime health, why have difficulty taking McCann out if you could kill those two so easily? Could it be just more than one killer with different killing preferences? It is indeed possible and would explain the short time frame between each murder. But the odds of two or more killers being as efficient as they were, leaving no traces behind, heralded disturbing new possibilities into the nature of this killing spree.

_Curious…_

What about the same killer, but one who uses different pokemon to commit the kill? That is probable, but to have such clean kills committed by pokemon indicates the trainer must be one of considerable skill. But why use different pokemon to kill? Why was McCann again, special?

Looker was getting nowhere.

* * *

"_McCann was known for being an air battle master was he not?" Looker questioned._

"_Yeap. He's almost a legend around here."_

* * *

"_Now, when was the last time you saw McCann?" _

_She answered the question and all of the ones that followed, albeit through gritted teeth._

"_I saw my grandfather at 7 o'clock today. I was going to have supper with him like we usually did every Thursday. He said he was busy though, and to go on to Paul's diner without him. Paul is a friend of mine whose dad owns a diner in Daybreak Town. We sometimes go there for meals."_

"_Did he tell you what he was busy with?" Looker enquired._

"_No, I didn't ask what it was about. I figured it was just about something like thinking of some new manoeuvres to teach Scizor, or planning a flight pattern for my Chimecho to follow. That's what he normally does when he says he's busy anyways. He takes his title of Air Battle Master very seriously. He also likes reading about historical stories about past air battle masters and their amazing skill. They're authentic accounts you know," Maya announced._

"_Alright. Did your grandfather have any enemies? Anyone he disliked?" Looker continued._

"_Not really, no." Maya answered, whilst wiping off the last drops of water with Looker's handkerchief._

* * *

No leads. Nothing. Everything Maya had said was pretty much rehashed from the media reports he could gather on the man: a master of reading and analysing air currents, an undefeated aerial master in the valley, whilst his Scizor was in top form. Everything had already been noted.

Looker froze in his figurative tracks.

"_They're authentic accounts you know"_

_Except that._

Authentic accounts? Of historical aerial battles?

Looker was a twenty year man in Interpol law enforcement. He has performed countless searches of every kind of media when he was devoted to his cases, including one involving a fanatical ruin maniac stealing priceless artefacts. He'd had to sieve through historical documents from hundreds of armed conflicts occurring throughout the last four hundred years, in hopes of piecing together the mystery. And never did he come across documentation of an aerial conflict. As far as he knew, documented aerial battles in war do not exist.

_Are those supposed accounts still in McCann's hou-_

A howl pierced through the air, shocking Looker out of his thoughts. He leapt out of his seat and ran out to the door of his office, intent on finding out what could have caused the emergency alarm to be set off. Before he reached it, however, he was intercepted by a young policeman. The sergeant yelled.

"Agent Looker, there's a hostage situation! Mauville National Museum and Archives!"

Looker's dash out of the room propelled the dust and the paper back into the air, to once again dance.


	5. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

_Mauville National Museum, Mauville City, 9th December 2005_

_18:25_

A grey truck grounded to screeching halt at the staircase that led to the Mauville National Museum. Inside, the resounding clicks of loading firearms accompanied the near audible rush of adrenaline in the grunts' veins. The thugs, filling most of the space with their selves and duffel bags, adjusted their ski masks and prepared themselves for the dastardly task ahead. The prospect of raiding the most famous museum in Hoenn and more than that, the prospect of getting paid handsomely for it, floated through their minds.

"Smiley and Jug take the roof; the seven of us secure the main exhibition area, Buck for the getaway. We get the boss whatever he wants, and rattle up a few bookworms. Sounds good to me."

"We're a bit early aren't we? The museum closes in a couple of minutes. And what about Interpol? They're just down the road dammit."

"Nope. The boss wants hostages. 'Said something about sending a message. As for the boys in blue, that's why we have these." He pointed to a bag filled with five pokéballs.

* * *

Fin-like appendages spread out wide, a dark blue beast, its demonic anatomy complete with a jagged dorsal fin, bulbous pods protruding from behind its brow and a sickles for arms, rode the blustery winds above Mauville City. As its stout, clawed legs connected with the gravel top of the museum, a ski masked man with a wide rimmed fedora removed himself from the garchomp's back. He strode across to a metal box that was chained up, twirling a gold shard in one hand and grasping a pokéball in the other. With a flick of his golden shard, he cued his land shark into action. The beast's scythe-like claw hacked its way into the interlocking steel rings that surrounded the box, severing them in half. Opening its lid, the man's gaze fell on a series of wires and circuit breakers used in maintenance of the museum.

He grinned.

He opened the pokéball in his left hand, releasing a metallic cyber-organism in a brilliant flash of light. A resonating series of beeps and buzzes emitted from the creature's body, segmented into three loosely binded spherical orbs of steel. The unmistakeable cackle of electrical discharges accompanied the inorganic beeps. The magneton, bobbing up and down in the air, awaited instruction. The fedora man proceeded to direct it through its practiced circuit disruption techniques, and not long after, the jumble of cables and other sensitive electronic components fell prey to the pokémon's magnetic discharges. Most of the museum's power was cut at that, save for the electronic door locks, some lights and the ventilation system.

_900._

_899._

_898._

He peered at his watch, and grinned wider.

"Right Smiley, Let's do this." At that moment, one other joined the man on the roof. Recalling his fearow, Jug approached the fedora man.

The fedora man gave no reply, instead rising from his crouched position and recalling his garchomp. His pokéballs and golden shard soon found themselves back in his belt pouch, followed soon after by the rustle of his gloved hand reaching into his thigh pocket and withdrawing his Beretta 9mm. Leaving the magneton on the roof for it to complete its communications disruption role, he led the way down a fire escape staircase, followed closely by the other grunt.

* * *

A row of glass doors framed by ornately carved oak was essentially the first flicker of amazement experienced when one entered the museum. An amber glow of overhead lights, embedded into the intricately designed terracotta ceilings, washed over the entire main exhibition hall, complimenting the gorgeous décor that entreated one's eyes to a feeling of complete awe no matter the direction. In addition, if one was to peer upwards, a truly remarkable feat of construction would grace his or her vision: a massive terracotta rendition of the legendary lord of the skies, Rayquaza, complete with angular crests, ornately carved scales and the legendary's unique markings. Its 60 foot long serpentine body, coiled in huge loops, stretched over the museum to ensure its titanic presence was felt by all. It was amazingly suspended by thin strands of wire, enhancing the realism of the sculpture. Its maw was stretched open in what appeared to be elation, revealing enormous, predatory fangs. This was the cornerstone of the Mauville National Museum.

Although smaller than other recognizable museums such as those found in Fuchsia or Veilstone, the museum's comprehensive collection of everything Hoenn, from the first tree house built in Fortree, to the first lileep fossil to 140 year old shrapnel from the Orre Uprising, highlighted a dedication to the preservation of a nation's rich culture and history unmatched in the world. Winning numerous awards for this very dedication, one could be sure to be treated to incredible technical efficiency and meticulous maintenance.

So when the lights cut five minutes _before_ closing time, everyone knew something was very wrong.

Seven masked men barged through the glass doors, making their presence known in the loudest and most violent way possible. Gunfire ripped through the quiet murmurs that filled the museum exhibition halls, inducing a wave of panic as its concussive waves of sound echoed. Most of the bullets were directed to the ceiling simply for fear, although a few found themselves tightly embedded into the chests of two overzealous security guards. Their less heroic counterparts were beaten down by the thugs and forced to floor, completely incapacitated.

"Hands behind your heads! Hands behind your heads! Everyone!" The grunts' abrasive shouts preceded the scramble of all the museum occupants to the ground, their hands locked to the back of their necks as instructed by their captors. In less than a minute, the main exhibition area became a crisis situation, the guards either unconscious or dead, and the passive museum-goers hostage.

* * *

_721._

_720._

_719._

_718._

"Archives room this way," Jug directed. The thugs shoved their way through another set of doors, before coming across a security guard. Gunning him down without so much as blinks of remorse, they continued deeper into the museum.

* * *

"C'mon pal, don't be difficult." The grunts coercedtheir 25 or so hostages against the wall and against the floor before binding their legs and arms together with rope. With them out of the way so as to not impede their movement and vision through the glass doors, but close enough so as to be within shooting range, and if it came to it, human shields, the grunts were more prepared for their inevitable encounter with Interpol. It had been a risky assignment to say the least, but their boss had ensured them their preparations would stave off the police. And who's to debate with the man? After all, two hundred grand in the pocket can be a very effective means of winning an argument.

With all the hostages tied up and in place and the preparations made, everything was set. And just in time too, for as soon as the final thug cast a duffel bag, its contents: five emptypokéballs, to the side, the unmistakable siren of approaching law enforcement percussed through the museum lobby.

"They're quicker than I thought. Oh well." The grunt turned to a mysteriously levitating red zigzag, floating a few feet above the ground, before watching it fall back into its position against the wall. He grinned. "This is where the fun begins."

* * *

The wail of a law enforcement-grade megaphone echoed through the surroundings of the now sieged and barricaded museum. With no clear way in, and with only police cars for cover to defend themselves if the grunts decided to burst out, the officers resorted to empty threats and shallow negotiation attempts with the grunts, as if their naïve, meaningless words would invoke a random sense of humanity in the grunts and force them out, all bundled into nice packages ready for transport to central holding.

"This is pathetic. How the heck did they get held up there so well? It's a museum, not a bloody bunker!"

"Must be a big time gang behind it. Maybe Roman's or Malone's."

"Whatever it is, it's beyond us. Is the hostage negotiator on his way…"

The officer trailed off as a police car drew up nearby. Looker rushed out of the white and blue motorcade, his overcoat billowing in the warm Mauville evening wind. Straining to avoid the trap of losing himself in the incredible architecture that shelled the museum, his eyes scrutinised the building in search for obvious entry points. There were a couple: the windows, the roof, and of course the grand entrance. Definitely places to avoid.

Vision still glued to the building, he addressed the policemen around him. "He's on his way. Meanwhile leverage is needed to help the negotiations."

"Leverage?"

Looker detached a radio transceiver from his belt.

"Assemble the SWATs."

* * *

_534._

_533._

_532._

The sound of metal against bone screeched through the Archives department. Shocked out of his seat, the head archivist jerked his head towards the steel rimmed door, watching helplessly as a sickle-like appendage raked and slashed at its lock mechanism and hinges. Before he could so much as run for safety, but long enough for shivers of horror to roll down his spine, he found himself choking on his own blood. His ribcage, a consequence of being crushed by the door that was hurled forward by the land shark, was now splintered and fragmented, spearing and stabbing into the very organs they were supposed to protect. His blood stained vision peering up for the last time, he could just make out the shape of two men and a dark blue blur flash across his vision. Oblivion greeted him.

"Ok Smiley, get whatever the boss wants and let's get out of here. Interpol should be swarming the others by now."

'Smiley' said nothing, instead shuffling past the broken corpse of the curator and sieving through the museum's computerised archives, its full access granted through the curator's account. Shortly after, the man found what he wanted. He rose to his feet and ran past dozens of metal shelves, each and every one filled with boxes of incredibly detailed accounts of Hoenn's past that, if not worth their weight in gold, were completely invaluable.

_199._

_198._

_197._

And yet he was focused solely on obtaining the one document that was missing from his collection of Orre aerial battle accounts. Said document, sat snugly inside an ordinary cardboard box, graced his vision moments later.

He grinned as wide as he ever had before.

* * *

"Weapons hot! Weapons hot! We breach in 30 seconds." The muffled order of the SWAT team commander rang through the five minds of the rest of the team Alpha of Mauville's special tactical division. Snipers atop neighbouring buildings covered Beta team on the roof and Alpha was to breach from the side of the building. The men backed away from the terracotta surface of the museum, ready to enter once the shape charge goes off. The zip-clicks of loading MP5s rang through the deafening calm, the prelude to the coming storm.

And it landed, in 3, 2, 1,

"Alpha team go! Go! Go!"

A thunderous explosion blew a hole through the side of the museum, showering the nearby hostages and grunts with plaster. Six SWAT members charged into the room, dashing to cover and rushing to gain clear lines of fire. The grunts grinned.

The SWAT team's blaring calls of "Hands on the ground!" and "Drop your weapons!" were muffled by an even greater noise as five synchronised detonations, erupting from nowhere ripped through half the SWATs, whilst incapacitating the rest. The grunts opened fire on the survivors, lulled off balance and dazed by the shockwaves, and soon all that was left of Alpha team was the commander. As he scrambled behind a large pillar for cover, the commander could scarcely believe what had just happened.

How could half-witted thugs get the drop on them? The rooftop spotters didn't pick up any grunts setting up Improvised Explosive Devicess at the breach point, and no way would the IEDs be so well placed as to specifically target the commandos. And as the SWAT commander ducked back behind cover after firing off a short burst at the thugs, he found out. The dead eyes of a Kecleon stared emptily at him; its body, blown to unrecognisable chunks of seared flesh, dotted the floor and walls.

_What the hell?_

* * *

_15._

_14._

_13._

The concussive shockwaves from the Kecleon suicide detonations rocked the Archives, shaking Jug and the fedora man off balance. "Looks like the boss's little present for the SWATS was delivered on time." The fedora man grinned, but in his little moment of satisfaction of the success of his little _erhmm…magic trick_, he failed to notice a sheet, knocked loose from the folder in his hand by the detonation, fall away. The flimsy floated down to the floor, safely tucking itself underneath the broken archives terminal.

_Derp, derp, Boom! And there go the boys in bl-_

The fedora man was pulled out of his reverie when Buck burst into archives, drawing surprised glances from Jug. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"The SWATs on the roof are going to cover the escape route. I just got here before they completely closed it off. They have your Magneton Smiley. What do we do?"

"I bloody hell don't know," Jug replied.

_7._

_6._

The fedora man, ignoring his accomplices' incessant whining, was instead completely absorbed in his watch, counting down the seconds.

_2._

_1._

He grinned.

A translucent grey mist started falling through the air vents of the Archives Room, and at that very instant, 'Smiley' whipped around, spraying bullets into the Buck. His large mass collided into the ground, unmoving. Jug's shock was evident.

"What the-"

And then he faced the fedora man, and glanced into his yellow gaze for the first time in the operation. The fatal, venomous yellow gaze of his employer. His boss.

"You're not Smiley," he weakly whispered. He had realised too late.

"No, nono noooooo. I'm more of a _Chuckles_."

With a snicker, the fedora man shot Jug in between the eyes, his body collapsing atop Buck's corpse. The man than withdrew a gas mask from his side pouch and slipped it over his head, at the same time withdrawing his garchomp. He walked idly out the door-less frame of the cemetery that has become of the Archives Room, and up to the roof to glide away into the dusk. As his hallucinogen began to spread itself through the museum, 'Chuckles' began to savour the fruits of his operation, through, in his opinion, the purest expression of joy. He broke out into laughing fits.

* * *

A few more bullets drilled their way into the granite pillar. "What's the matter, officer? Not thrilled to meet us? I mean I can't be sure exactly, since you're being awful quiet." The grunt's taunting was grating on the SWAT commander's nerves.

And he conveyed his sentiments with return burst of gunfire, this time tagging the grunt's accomplice in the kneecap. The injured man collapsed to the ground, swearing in pain. The commander grinned.

"Oi! What was that for? Fine, fine. If you want to be like that, I'll just have to bring someone else into our little _game,_ to replace poor Jad." The grunt grinned. "C'mere buddy. Wanna join in?"

The maniac grasped at a young boy, too petrified to struggle out of his clutches. The kid coughed and choked between his rising fear and his tear-clogged nasal passageways. The grunt's Beretta playfully tapped at the young boy's shoulder, his trigger finger all too itchy.

"Now crawl out of your hiding spot law spawn, or little Timmy here gets a lead implant."

_Go to hell._

The SWAT commander was running out of time. The grunts will soon be gutsy enough to force him out of his hiding spot, if the hostage threat didn't do that first. He didn't have enough time to wait for the Beta SWAT team to arrive either. He lacked a clear line of fire, and with the boy acting as a human shield, a burst at the thug was not an option anyway. The commander was out of ideas, and that very thought left him feeling empty and hapless. He was scared. Not of death, but of the failure of completing his duty, to save the hostages. He could almost smell his own fear, and it was combined with the noxious compound of burnt gunpowder and the roasted flesh of his comrades. It pricked up his nose as sharply as any needle could.

_But wait. What's that other odour?_

The grunts seem to notice it too, as they all tilted their heads up towards the ceiling. A thick grey mist phased through the ventilation outlets, diffusing through the rest of the exhibition hall, fading from a visible threat into an invisible one. At first the grunts took no heed of the gas, continuing to taunt the SWAT commander into a hasty move. But slowly, the gas's odour became more evident, as more of it continued to pervade the suspense-filled air of the hostage crisis. The grunts' eyes, once filled with glee and the sadistic joy of holding the enforcer of a society that hunted them for years, were now hauntingly empty, as the grunts fell subject to the airborne hallucinogen which had by now circulated through the museum. The SWAT commander quickly pulled a gas mask over his head, before he was too subject to whatever atrocities were inherent in the mist.

* * *

Overwhelmed by absolute darkness, a haunting chill percussed its way through the grunt's bones. The sensation was augmented by the seeming inability to feel or sense anything else. Trapped in a realm devoid of everything and anything, devoid of objects, the sky, air, light, the grunt began to panic. Where was the boy he had in his clutches? Where was the pillar? And that cowardly SWAT? Where was the museum, and where were its occupants to whom he had instilled so much fear? Where was the rest of his body? Why couldn't he turn his head? Why couldn't he shift his eyes? He sent a mental command to his muscles – wherever they were – to trash and writhe, to try to break free of whatever that had immobilised his body and senses. It was for nought however, as he was soon returned the ability to feel. Warmth overcame the chill. It was alluring, comforting. But the warmth continued to grow, eventually erupting into an all-encompassing raging inferno. The sensation continued to crackle on, nibbling at his skin with an ever intensifying agony of being burnt alive. And it stopped.

Now a trickling stream washed over his sore burn wounds, refreshing him, comforting him, and enticing him into a feeling of euphoria once more. The feeling intensified though, now buffeting his frail body with tremendous waves, before completely engulfing him. He trashed violently, trying to force his head out of the water, trying to gulp in air to survive. But it would do him no good. The pressure mounted, crushing his ribcage and forcing its way through any opening in his body: his ears, his mouth, his eyelids, his nasal passageway. And on the verge of his consciousness flickering out, he was once again, spared.

The grunt was subject to one final sensation. His body was once again battered viciously by ethereal fluids, this time of wind, not of water. The sound of rushing air whistled shrilly into his ear drums, threatening to cause his skull to implode. And then there was the debilitating growl. And the crushing presence. And just like Malone, his previous employer, it was over.

* * *

The SWAT commander could scarcely believe what was going on. The grunts were now rolling across the floor in agony, some tearing at their skin until it bled, some trying to force out their lungs from their body with heavy coughs, and others just paralysed, their eyes rolling to the back of their skulls in shock. The grunt who had the boy in his clutches was now raking at his throat with one hand. The child, along with the rest of the hostages, also began to show signs of their being subjected to the same hallucinations as the thugs.

The SWAT paused, racking his brain to somehow find a way to maximise the number of lives he could save. The grunts were incapacitated, but wasting time freeing the hostages could expose the hallucinogen to the rest of Mauville through the entry hole his team had punched through, and other openings throughout the museum. And that was too much a risk to be left unchecked. As his eyes shifted back and forth, as if searching for some answer to the bloody conundrum, they both fell on a metal box, built into the wall of the museum opposite the SWAT entry hole.

The commander paused, now certain of what needed to be done. He reached for his communicator to alert Looker, the coordinator of the SWAT attack, of the situation.

"Call off Beta team. I'm going to seal off the building to prevent further contamination. We don't know how concentrated the hallucinogen has to be for it to be lethal. There could be enough in the museum to wipe out half of the city. Count all the hostages as lost, Looker. Operation failed. Over and out."

The commander paused, relishing one final gulp of filtered air.

He dashed out from behind the pillar, adrenaline fuelling his every move. The commander sniped off the writhing grunts and trundled towards the child. With the youngling firmly grasped in his right arm, the SWAT ran towards the entry hole, shoving past the writhing, convulsing bodies of the schizophrenic museum goers, and pushed him out of the hallucinogen-thick exhibition hall before rolling a glass exhibition case over the hole, sealing it. He ran across to the nearest power box, slicing into the museum security system and reactivating the automated locks to all doors and windows, preventing any more of the hallucinogen from sipping out.

_Mission accomplished._ The SWAT commander breathed a heavy sigh of relief.

But before he could so much as turn around, he found himself at the mercy of a mob of crazed, schizophrenic former hostages, the men and women he was supposed to save. Their flailing body parts and bloodcurdling screams tore at him, both physically and mentally, but he knew the job was done. Mauville was safe from the toxins.

* * *

_Fortree City Gym, Fortree City, 9th December 2005_

_21:34_

"Stop fidgeting, will you? I can't help you preen your feathers if you're so jumpy."

Winona's swellow chirped a rather irritated reply, although he did try to stay still. Ruffled during their training sessions with Falkner to the point that they might affect his flight, it was something the pokémon was deservedly annoyed about.

"I know, I know. I shouldn't have made you use aerial ace when his pidgeot had the height advantage."

"_-llow."_

"It wasn't _that obvious_. That sneaky bird masks his counters well."

Falkner was seated a few meters away, lazily flipping between a nature documentary about bibarels and their dams and a cheesy drama. He'd almost won this one, but neither of their hearts were really on the battle. At least the birds' were. Pidgeot figured a good battle might snap his trainer out of apathy. Swellow too wanted to put on a good show.

She'd been trying to cheer him up for days now, but other than a few turns of his lips whenever he beat one of her pokémon during a training battle, or when he came up with a new aerial manoeuvre to somehow outfox her flying types, progress was dismal. However, Interpol stationing bodyguards for the two of them just in case they were targeted by whoever committed those murders, and the Pokémon Leagues from their respective regions starting to worry over their safety, didn't help.

She'd at least managed to convince him to stay till now in Fortree, feeling he wasn't in any condition to resume League duties. However, the Violet city gym leader was planning to leave the following day.

"Winona, get over here quickly!"

She stopped (much to her swellow's chagrin) and moved over to the television set that had Falkner's shocked attention.

"…_Interpol is still uncertain of who is responsible for the gas outbreak in the museum. With the fear of toxic contamination spreading to the rest of Mauville City hanging over their shoulders, the policemen are taking no risks. An estimated 23 people, not including a six-men SWAT team, are trapped inside. Their conditions are unknown as of this moment…"_

A museum, of all places, was attacked. It was scarcely believable that the scene unfolding before her eyes was in the same region as hers. It was so peaceful just two weeks ago.

"…_As regional support for Interpol dwindles in the light of their recent failures to stop both the murders of renown Flying –type trainers across regions and preventing this catastrophe from happening, people must also be wondering if more of these terrible acts are to follow."_

Winona sighed.

_What's happening?_

This has had to be the worst terrorist attack the entire region endured since the Team Aqua and Magma debacle, and appeared the police were helpless.

_Just like before._

"What do you make of it?" Falkner asked.

"I don't know. I really don't know," she muttered feebly.

"Whatever's going on, the police aren't taking it on well." Falkner sighed. He paused, weighing his words thoughtfully, before continuing.

"Should we bring the Hoenn League into this?"

Winona recoiled at the question. "The League? Falkner, I would want nothing more than to stop more of these acts from happening, but do you really think we should get involved? We deal with pokémon and trainers, not murderous psychos with toxic gas," she spat.

"C'mon Winona. You know you're bound to be able to help in at least one way or another. Maybe you all could find a pokémon witness? Or loan pokémon to the police to help bolster them. I mean poochyenas and arcanines only go so far for security."

Winona couldn't really reply to that. The League shouldn't get involved, she was certain. It was potentially disruptive for one thing, and could be provocative to the terrorists. Plus, the politics of it all. Getting them involved in another situation where the police couldn't handle things? It would appear to be overpowering an organisation unaffiliated with the Hoenn government. And the last thing the League needs is more government opposition. It was partly due to the friction between them and the politicians that caused Steven to decide to step down as champion. They saw him as too powerful. Heir to the largest transnational corporation in Hoenn _and _leader of the Elite Four? They would have declared him a threat to national security if he wasn't as popular to the people as he was.

Although, Winona couldn't argue with propensity of the League to get the job done. The last time they got involved, all it took was Steven, Wallace and a talented trainer to bring down both Team Aqua and Magma. Plus, she had just seen Falkner display the most worry, compassion or any emotion other than despair for that matter, when he suggested it. An urge to prevent his plight from happening to anyone else maybe? Falkner always had a big heart, though he rarely admitted it. Maybe _he_ should help in some way.

"I'll ask Wattson about it. But I really think we shouldn't get involved, at least not officially. Maybe as individual trainers lending a hand. Why don't you help out? The police can't really say no if a gym leader offered them help, right?"

Falkner seemed to contemplate the thought, before replying.

"I...Hold on. What's that smell?"

Swellow seemed to sense it too, as he was now flapping rather angrily at the air. A thick grey mist descended upon them just seconds later. Falkner began coughing as the gas sipped into his lungs, and before long, the hallucinogen begun to take effect.

"Swellow, quick! Defog the area!"

But it was too late. Winona's pokémon seemed to be just as badly affected, as he too began trashing across the floor. And then, all went black.

_What the – _

Heavy breathing permeated her senses. Every sharp inhale riveted through her body, desperate to fill the trembling canisters that were her lungs and more, almost as if the gulp of oxygen would diffuse into her soul and calm her anxiety. Every exhale, a display of exasperation when she realized the previous intake failed to rejuvenate her. And yet every exhale left her feeling emptier, forcing her another sharp intake. And then another exhale. And then another.

The breathing picked up pace now, each exchange of air sounding more rushed, more forceful, more agonising. Then she realized something. The breathing _wasn't _hers.

A grunt of pain bombarded her ears.

And that definitely wasn't her.

Flashes pierced her vision, drilling images of a by-gone era into her memory: an era of unrest, conflict, a great purging of the fertile Hoenn land. Something exploded to her right, a fire raged to her left. A wall of sand and dust erupted and engulfed her from behind. Suddenly, incredible winds wisped all of it away. And she heard voices that seem to come _from _the wind.

"Sirrrr, They'rrre determined to-"

"Loose the-"

"We don't need-"

"No, no!"

Oblivion.

* * *

Mt. Chimney suddenly captured her vision. Blistering, blasting winds, saturated with rain and ash from the active volcano, blurred what appeared to be route 113, the connector between Fallarbor town and route 111.

_Hold on. What happened? I was just back at the-_

The route seemed to capture her attention though, snapping her out of her wonderment of how she actually got there. Something seemed odd about it. Something unkempt, feral. Winona tried to look around, but felt no movement. She tried lifting her arm, shaking her head, but again, nothing responded, as if she had lost motor abilities and her sense of touch. But that couldn't be true; she could still feel the buffeting winds that struck her face.

Suddenly the scenery shifted, and now she was peering at massive mud flows that rolled across the ground, felling trees as they washed over them. They must have been formed by the torrential downpour combined with the eternal ash-fall. She instinctively flinched- or tried to- when a wave approached her. But it seemed to just wash underneath her, as it her feet were not planted to the ground. Or as if they weren't there at all.

Her vision shifted once more. Now she was high above the route, panning across the mud-choked area. What appeared to be soldiers were bunkered down in thin trenches that chopped up the route into multiple sections. A sudden explosion would erupt along the lines every so often, showering the men and what appeared to be swamperts in more mud.

_A war?_

The massive lahars made their presence known once more. They now seemed to be rippling across the entire route via thin wave fronts, but the carnage they were responsible for was no less obvious. They tore through the foliage, over the men, over the swamperts, into the trenched, washing most away.

The mud flows were inaudible now. But what was audible was the blearing rush of wind past her ears, and the fact that the ground seemed to rush at her. And the aerodactyl that was diving alongside her.

_Wait, what?_

* * *

**Author's note:** Just realised I used 14 line breaks in one chapter ~_O


	6. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Chaos.

It was a textbook description of the word. Massive mud flows massacring everything along the ground, trench warfare between two armies in the midst of it, everything blurred to little more than erratic grey and brown smears dashing across her perspective. The smears would seem to run across like brush strokes drawn hastily across a piece of canvas, first stretching across her vision from top to bottom, then rolling across to the left until its escaped her eyes, only to be replaced by more smears of noticeably different shades. Those lines would then shift across to her right, replaced again by ever newer smears. But despite this endless conveyer belt of blurs that cascaded across her, there was always one constant: the unmistakeable shape of an aerodactyl gliding right next to where she would have been, had her physical being followed where her distant mind had wondered to. No matter what she tried, she could not seem to pull her vision away from the aerodactyl, as it made weaving banks and rolls through the downpour of water droplets and volcanic detritus.

_Where the heck am I?_

It appeared to be route 113. No other area in the world had such a view of Mt. Chimney, the only active volcano in Hoenn. But then again Winona felt it couldn't be. Route 113 was peaceful, home to glass blowers working to make an honest living from the naturally occurring ash. Not armed conflicts and wild aerodactyls and definitely not the site of focus of her disembodied visions. But where else could this place be? Maybe she wasn't even in Hoenn anymore. It was possible, especially since no armed conflicts took place in her region since –

_No._

It seemed to fit. But it was nonsensical. It was as believable as…

…_my vision and other senses being torn away from my body and pulled back and forth and up and down like a rag doll, alongside an aerodactyl. Yeah._

Route 113. During the Orre uprising era. No. It couldn't be true. Could it? What would she be doing here anyway? Winona had never taken any interest to the war 140 years ago. It had to be a dream, or hallucination of some sort, she told herself. But nevertheless, how and why would her subconscious conjure up a place and time she hadn't ever bothered about?

_And what did that aerodactyl have to do with anything?_

The fossil pokémon seemed to oblige to her question, despite appearing to be unaware of her presence, by suddenly stopping its spirals and jerks and suddenly tilting its head downwards, as if its eyes locked onto a something coming from the chaos a few hundred feet below them. It suddenly heaved its enormous wings downwards, propelling the draconic beast's bulk forward at an even greater velocity. The aerodactyl followed up its sudden dash by tucking its leathery limbs close to its body and flipping itself over, pulling into a near vertical dive. Her vision completely dependent on the aerodactyl, Winona was too pulled into the manoeuvre, and she found herself subject to the overwhelming sensations brought about by the fossil pokémon's extraordinary speed. Despite her experience in flight with her own pokémon, she could barely stay conscious under massive g-forces that amounted on her, forces that the aerodactyl seem to take in its stride. The beast simply continued to accelerate downwards, and she could have sworn that pokémon would break the sound barrier if it continued. Her vision faltered.

But moments before she blacked out, the aerodactyl slammed open its wings, dissipating all of its forward momentum in an instant, before descending gracefully on what appeared to be a ledge of rock barely ten feet above the ground.

_Finally, something I can see clearly._

Winona was also thankful about the fact that her vision was no longer slaved to wherever the aerodactyl faced, that now she could at least move it around enough to get a clearer sense of what was going on. About fifteen feet away, a long dugout that seemed to graze one end of side of the route all the way to the craggily foot of Mt Chimney was an endless buzz of disorder; soldiers trundled knee deep in mud through them, yelling for anything from rations to a shovel. Riflemen were scattered haphazardly along the trench line, firing bursts at their enemy. Meters behind the trenches, artillerymen loaded and let loose their weapons, bombarding an outgrowth of vegetation that grew atop a highland. The chaos was all the more evident on the ground.

The aerodactyl growled and rolled its head, almost as if it was loosening tight neck muscles. Her vision was once again locked onto the revived fossil, and only now did she realise its age. Jagged lines traced down the edge of its wings, ending with various nooks and cuts. Its tail was scored by blackened marks creating a grim contrast against the fossil's grey colouration. Winona could gather from the singes and the wounds that it was a veteran in the skies, an apex predator slightly past its prime. But the question remained: what did it have to do with her vision of the war?

Winona flinched, or she imagined she would have had she have any motor control, as a shell exploded nearby.

_Hell._

It was an instinctive thought, yet extremely appropriate. What else could be used to describe a war? From her time hundreds of feet above the air she knew the battle would be severe, despite moving too fast to be able to pick up any detail. But now, on the ground, Winona fully experienced the blood and the agony in the battle. Death throes rang in the air as men had their limbs blown off by shrapnel and gunfire. The rapping sound of rifle fire seemed to try to overload it, but every cringe, gasp, and scream was hauntingly clear to her. She would have shivered, but she could not. She would have shirked behind a rock to hide, but she could not. With no physical outlet for the pain and the fear, Winona instead fought to focus her mind on the one thing she could. The fossil dragon.

She suddenly found that a man now stood by it, his gloved hand resting affectionately on the aerodactyl's neck whilst his other held onto the bony outgrowth on its back. In one swift motion, the man hoisted himself onto its back.

_It has a trainer._

The aerodactyl launched itself back into ash tainted sky, bearing its rider with it. Winona braced herself for another flight over the battle.

* * *

The Orre expeditionary force needed to succeed in taking this route to obtain a strong launching point for which to continue their campaign. And the man assigned the task to seize it was General Mallory. Infamous for his ferocity, he had obviously ordered the all-out invasion of route 113. Now, he faced a startling dilemma. Mallory's aggressive attack was just _not _aggressive enough. The Orre war machine was halted in its bloody tracks by fierce Hoenn resistance in the form of an incredible defensive backbone, bolstered by multiple swampert groups.

"_Master,"_ his drowzee, functioning as his psychic communications officer, telepathically announced the arrival of a message from the front lines. _"The Hoenn defensive line is holding strong. They're determined to-"_

"Intensify the assault! Order more soldiers from their defensive positions and crack forward with the attack!" Mallory bellowed, unable to tolerate the deadlock. The drowzee relayed the general's orders, exactly as it was given, without question or so much as a shift in its posture. The only indication that the drowzee presented the message was the eerie purple glow of its eyes, but that was enough to satisfy Mallory for the moment.

He seemed to catch movement behind him from nowhere, as he began uttering obscenities under his breath, something along the lines of 'bloody mercenary."

The silver gleans of a predator's eye shone back at the general, at the mention of _his_ presence.

Greyed by ash and ragged till all that remained of the right sleeve were a few shreds of cloth, an old and tattered black military grade overcoat hung from his larger than average build. Across the front were the decorative bands that signified rank in an army, or what was left of them. Those golden emblazonments on the coat were nothing but thin, stripe-like, ash covered remnants of their former glistening condition. A maroon sash which also signified rank was knotted round his right shoulder, now simply another piece of fabric to add to the tatters that were his overcoat's right sleeve. Beneath the overcoat was another thick leather garment, one more typical of an Orre soldier's attire, bearing two rows of unpolished and worn-down brass buttons. A leather belt wound tightly around standard military grade trousers completed his uniform. His appearance suggested a soldier that was dead many times over, possibly buried and dug up again after every death. But he was very much still alive. Straggly and crusted in mud, his black hair was swept across his forehead, doing little to hide the vicious burn wounds that spread over the left side of his face. Beginning slightly below his brow and extending to his mouth, the yet-to be-healed blackened remains of his flesh only added to his rotten, derelict image.

Strapped across his body was a Chassepot bolt action rifle with a bayonet attachment, its barrel and blade in immaculate condition, a sharp contradiction to his wielder's appearance. He had his scalloped gloves crossed across his torso. Made from the microscopic daggers that sharpedo skin was comprised of, and coated with a hard resin to preserve them, a firm handshake would have scraped off enough flesh to warrant amputation.

He had been standing by in the trench bunker with the boisterous general, waiting for the order. He had predicted that Mallory's offense wouldn't break Hoenn's lines. It seemed obvious to anyone with half decent experience in basic military strategy. Mallory just wouldn't acknowledge the fact that his army was uncoordinated, sloppy and in a less-than-ideal attacking position. His band of idiots couldn't hold a candle to the defenders. Not without him on the battlefield anyway. It was only a matter of time before Mallory had to swallow his pride and order him to help.

An explosion exploded nearby, shaking the bunker down to its supports. As Mallory stumbled under the riveting vibrations of the detonation, he swore and bellowed to his drowzee. "Arghh! How are the artilleries holding?!"

"_They are under serious damage from the enemy's artillery bombardment and rock slide attacks,"_ the telepath answered.

"Dammit…"

He watched Mallory approach cracking point. In a matter of moments the stubborn general would have to recognise that no progress could be made without his help. He felt the terrible folly of the Orre Expeditionary Force was their utter lack of leaders who were intelligent enough to win battles, and yet not stubborn enough to waste resources on glory-seeking through pointless shows of bravado and machismo. Mallory was incompetent in both respects. If the idiot would just call him into battle it would have been over yesterday. But of course, the order would completely strip away any appraisal the general would have achieved from winning the battle, since once _he_ was involved, his superiors would simply view it as another trivial achievement.

But all of that, the whole war even, didn't matter to him. As long as they paid him, he didn't care.

"…..Break their backs, Aquila. Rain hell on them," Mallory finally muttered, defeated.

Snarling, vicious, burly savages, and that's just when they were at the mess hall. Yet the blood curdled in even the most battle-hardened, scarred Orre veterans when he was ordered into battle. Mallory's escorts gulped in nervousness and shuffled aside, permitting him an unhindered path out of the bunker. Some kept their heads bowed, unwilling to attract attention from the mercenary's gaze. Others just stared in sheer horror, paralysed by the fear of a sudden lash from him.

Aquila smirked, before stepping out and stalking out of the bunker. He stepped out into the trench and approached a small ledge that jutted into the third row of dugouts. With a flick of his wrist, an aerodactyl descended from the sky, its massive draconic wings stretched outwards to soften its rather intense dive down to his position. He comforted the mount, blissfully indifferent to the fact that there was fierce conflict being waged. To him there was no ash-choked life and death struggle between the combatants of Orre and Hoenn. There were just three things: him, his aerodactyl, and targets.

* * *

Aquila hurtled through the seemingly impenetrable barrier of ash, slicing through it with unbridled aplomb. Jerking on the bony scutes that layered across his mount's back, he threw his aerodactyl into a maniacal near-vertical dive towards their prey. He had locked onto a crowd of soldiers huddled in a defensive group. Launching missiles of glowing rock, his aerodactyl quite literally ripped through their bodies, leaving embedded stones as a stark memento of his presence in the battle. The ace pulled up and blasted high into the haze, gaining cover and scanning the battlefield for more prey. Like a staraptor eyeing baby bidoof, Aquila's sharp gaze tracked a group of Hoenn military swampert. They remained relatively motionless, preoccupied with shielding their injured human counterparts from the Orre war pokémon. Easy prey.

Aquila rained down upon them, his mount firing bolt after bolt of sharpened rock towards the hapless mud fish. Despite the species' inherent sturdiness and resistance to the stone edge attack, swampert could only take so much punishment. Once their protectors were worn down, the weakened Hoenn soldiers were massacred. That assault had essentially left the Hoenn defenders little traction for which to continue the defence. As Aquila returned to the invaders' temporary barracks their ground forces steamrolled the pathetic remnants of the Hoenn defence to victory.

* * *

_My Arceus._

She could scarcely believe the ferocity of his attack, or its incredible speed. Winona was once again powerless to tear her vision away from the aerodactyl, so she was forced to watch Aquila's decimation of the Hoenn defence. She had witnessed ground troops kill and die just moments ago, but to watch _this_, brutal, rapid bloody devastation brought from the sky was gut-wrenching.

_Hundreds of men, dozens of swamperts, cut down. _

Winona really wanted to end the nightmare now. She was curious at first, then disbelief and shock overrode it when she saw that a war was being waged where her mind was. But now she couldn't take it. Winona desperately tried to shift away from the visions of death and destruction, back to safer, more pleasant times, back to the gym, back to reality. Because this could not be real, she told herself.

* * *

She started from unconsciousness. The lingering mist's aroma stung the back of her throat. Shaking her head to clear the hazy feeling in her mind, Winona looked around.

_Oh? The gym? Wait._

She remembered the incident.

_Oh no-_

"Falkner! Arceus are you alright?" Winona rushed to her unconscious friend's side, but he gave little indication of sensing her presence. Winona pressed her ear to his chest, searching frantically for a pulse, a breath, anything that might signal him being alive.

She dialled for help as fast as she could.

* * *

_Interpol HQ, Mauville City, 10th December 2005_

_17:33_

"What did you get?"

"Ah, Agent Looker. Well it's an airborne hallucinogen based on the effects it had on the boy and the SWAT."

"I know that." The SWAT's report had managed to determine that much about the toxin. His extraction from the museum hadn't been easy, and his injuries would leave him crippled for months, but at least one other person survived the incident. "I want to know if you managed to find anything else about it."

"Well..., Devon Co. was kind enough to donate a few chemists to our aid, but even then, we could determine little. It's a compound unlike any other we have come across."

"Alright then, make it a top priority in the lab. I want an anti-toxin developed and a report on its properties on my desk as soon as possible. The museum must be decontaminated completely if we are to make progress in the case."

"Yes sir." Looker nodded his acknowledgement before pivoting and walking out of the forensics lab, his thoughts not lingering on the chemist's work, but of what he could accomplish whilst the museum was still decontaminated. Again lacking any new leads to the crime, he resorted to following up on an older one, related to another murder.

An unexplored lead rang through his mind.

_Authentic aerial battle accounts…_

Looker opened his pokégear, letting loose a sigh whilst he did so. _Back to Sinnoh._

"Hello? This is Agent Looker of Interpol Mauville. I would like to speak with Maya McCann please?"

* * *

_Near Daybreak Town, Sinnoh, 11th December 2005_

_9:49 Sinnoh Standard Time_

"I apologise for disturbing you again Maya."

Maya seemed to be wrestling to get in front of her grandfather's old scizor, as the bug did not forget the incident with Looker and a glass of water the last time they met him. He was hell bent in wedging in between Looker and Maya at every possible moment now, as if his presence would shield her from any more questioning attempts.

"It's….erhhh, move Scizor!" she muttered whilst pushing him away. "Phew. It's no biggie. As long as you don't splash me with water again."

Looker cracked a smile. "You were very helpful in the case Maya. You just needed a bit of a nudge."

She finally squeezing her way past the metal bug, oddly reluctant to permit anyone to enter the study, before continuing, "Although bucket-head over here still doesn't like you. We'd better hurry up before he decides to give you a piece of his mind." Looker swore he saw Scizor grin at that.

"Here we are," Looker announced. They had returned back to McCann's house. Despite having it thoroughly checked the last time the police was here to look for any stolen items, Looker was near certain a piece of valuable information had yet to be extracted from the house. Leading the twelve year old and the scizor into McCann's study room, Looker examined the obvious places first. Finding nothing of interest, Looker proceeded to meticulously scour every nook and cranny in the cupboard and tables. Again turning up naught, he resorted to asking Maya whether she had any clues as to where he might have kept those documents. It was after all the reason why she called her.

"He always kept whatever he felt was important or confidential in a small safe that he kept-"

"-under his bed. Yes, we already checked the safe the first time we came in. Any other ideas?"

"Err…" Maya chewed at her bottom lip, shifting uneasily. Looker picked it up immediately.

"Maya, you know very well I need to know as much as I can to try to stop more people from being murdered."

"Yeah, I… alright," she muttered. If it could help him stop the person who killed her grandfather, Maya felt she could divulge with a little secret information.

"There was once when I was younger, I don't know, maybe nine. I was playing with a chingling my grandpa caught for me just a few days earlier, the one that would become my chimecho. Anyways the little thing was always really active, bouncing around and ringing happily. One day I was playing tag with her. Chingling bounced up and into grandpa's study room trying to hide from me. She hopped around the room, and eventually lost balance and rolled underneath that cupboard over there." Maya pointed to the wooden structure. Looker's critical gaze followed her finger, and it briefly glanced towards the scizor that leaned on it, its furious glare meeting his own for a flicker, before Looker pulled away to focus on the floorboard beneath the shelf.

"I reached under and tried to free her from underneath it. While she struggled, I realized the taps she made on the floorboards sounded different to what other floorboards sounded like. I didn't think much of it, but as I just managed to pull out Chingling, grandpa walked in on us. He was really secretive when I asked him about the funny sounds. So I snuck in a few hours later, and tried to pry at the boards with a thin stick. It didn't work since the stick kept snapping, but I did manage to poke a hole there." Scizor's eyes opened wide in shock.

"I shone a light down the hole, and could just barely pick out some written paper underneath. Grandpa eventually caught me, and I got shelled for the snooping, but he told me he kept some very important documents , something about aerial accounts about the Orre war, down there. He told me to never tell anyone about it, because it was really valuable. I kinda let it slip the last time you questioned me. I guess I was just really fed up about the whole thing, of losing him, and just wanted to let go…" Maya trailed off at that, the guilt of disobeying her grandfather about the secret suddenly an iron anvil on her chest.

Looker had already shifted to the cupboard, attempting to move the structure off over the floorboards. "Maya, if it means bringing a killer whom I suspect may be linked to those accounts, then you have most certainly done the right thing."

A gleaming red claw flashed.

"I know. I just hope his going to be caught soon. Hey, wait! Scizor! What are you doing!?"

Scizor halted Looker dead in his tracks, one of his heavy steel-cladded pincers positioned in front of the cupboard, the other clamped around Looker's wrist. The scissor pokémon pulled it down and twisted aside in the most disabling manner possible, leaving Looker's shoulder bent awkwardly forward and his entire body lurched over. A hauntingly deep growl escaped the scizor's mouth, accompanied by the loud buzz of his wings, now a blurry motion in his fury.

"Maya, restrain your, oww, Scizor, if you please? Quite discomforting, this is," Looker muttered somewhat hastily through clenched teeth. He was completely incapacitated by the Scizor's swift movement, and knowing better than to struggle against a pokémon that snap his wrist in an instant, he instead attempted to relax his body against the deadlock.

"Scizor, stop it! He's trying to help!"

Scizor replied with another throaty growl, and tapped the floor beneath the cupboard with his pointed foot. He shook his head immediately after.

"Grandpa knew how important the documents were, but he would have never let you pin Looker down! Please, stop it. You're hurting him!" Scizor did not let up, intent on guarding the accounts as his master had instructed. Looker sighed.

"Listen Scizor." His deliberate voice returned. "I am not interested in what the accounts contain of the war. If you do not want me obtaining the documents, fine. What I am interested in is finding out who took them."

That got the bug's attention. A mixture of disbelief and fear crossed his eyes.

"See for yourself. I will leave you to do so without my presence if you want, as soon as you let me go." Scizor did. Looker complied by stepping outside the room with Maya.

Her shock was just as evident as her scizor's. "Impossible. No one could have taken those documents. How…why would anyone-"

"Erhhmm. McCann's murder was a key one in the investigation. His cause of death was unusually violent. And with the information on the aerial account you accidentally leaked to me, I inferred that his possession of such valuable items must have been an incentive for the killer to be considerably bloody, be it the added complication of having to search or steal something after the kill, or simply a grudge related to those documents. Nothing else was taken from the house or from his body. Not anything from any of the other deaths as well. Serendipitously, the documents are of even greater significance since our killer has been following quite an elemental theme in his or her targets, isn't that right? Flying type trainers. Aerial accounts. The empty compartment underneath the cupboard," Looker's suspicion confirmed as Scizor slid the floorboard off the floor and continued to glare disbelievingly, now at the empty space in the ground, "is the greatest clue I have had in the investigation, as it quite possibly links this case, with the gas attack on Mauville National Museum."

"Which I will investigate once it has been completely decontaminated. Thank you Maya, that's all that I needed." And at that Looker left the house, leaving a perplexed young girl and a begrudgingly impressed scissor pokémon.

Maya stared in awe.

Then she looked at Scizor.

"How much of that do you think he made up on the spot?" she murmured. Scizor stared back.

"None? Wow, he's good."

Scizor could only nod in agreement.

* * *

_Mauville City Gym, __11th December 2005_

_1:49_

"What do you mean _no_!? The whole region could be under threat for crying out loud! We damned well have to get the League involved before this worsens!" Winona yelled.

The flight to Mauville was painful in every possible aspect. She was physically drained by it; the normally playful caress of the wind over her face had sharpened to stabs across her body. She didn't know why; normally she would have been bursting with enough energy to fly endless circles around Hoenn. Her flights were choppy and turbulent as well, more due to her distracted mind sapping at her usual grace then the weather or her pokémon. But as of now, she didn't care. She was just tired. To see her friend, her almost brother a deathly pale body strewn across the floor of the gym had haunted her every waking moment she spent without some form of distraction. It had kept her awake at night, knowing that Falkner was still in a coma, his soft skin scarred red across his neck and sides. The doctor told her it was self-inflicted, an involuntary strike against his own person induced by the hallucinogen in the gas. A horror it must have been, the vision he experienced. The experience left her feeling like an empty shell, holding echoes of guilt of why she had been spared the torturous hallucination but not him, why he was in a coma and not her. In addition, her own milder hallucination still percussed within her. Mixed up in the mist of her guilt was the rush of adrenaline she felt as the aerodactyl pirouetted through the sky. The curiosity as to what was happening amidst the smears of colour beneath her. And then the stark realisation that it was a war in the past. The encounter with a demon who seized control of his formerly fossilised steed and rode it over the wind currents to pour hell upon the vulnerable men below. The despair. The conflict. But of course that hallucination had ended. She now feared that Falkner's had only begun, and that he was still ensnared in the dark echelons of its influence. She could not carry on with that possibility still lingering in her mind. She had to stop it, to find the toxic mist's maker and free Falkner of his slumber. She had to try.

That drive to try powered Winona to continue to argue the case with the others in her company. Unsurprisingly, she let go of every anti-League involvement sentiment she had ever since the gas attack.

"Listen, my dear," Wallace implored. Next to the Champion stood Wattson, gym leader and mayor of Mauville, one of the few members of the Hoenn League bearing governing responsibilities as well. As such, he was always the most worried about the League overstepping its boundaries with the government.

"Don't 'listen, my dear' me you water-logged amphibian! They almost killed Falkner. They tried to kill me. It's obvious the police can't handle it." She turned to Wallace's companion. "Come on Wattson, you're more aware of this than anyone else. You were in Mauville when the gas attack happened, weren't you?" Winona almost pleaded for Wattson to say yes. "The situation was helpless at the museum wasn't it?"

The bodyguards they assigned to protect Falkner and herself that night. They were knocked unconscious before the attack.

_Useless slabs of meat. _

Wattson couldn't disagree with her. The report he got from the commissioner was worse than distressing. They couldn't do a thing. But to be involved, would that really help? She wasn't the first to suggest them aiding the investigation. His office had been flooded with angry emails, letters, calls, asking him: 'why hadn't the League been brought in on this?' He could barely offer an answer.

"You know the complications. And Winona, there is no guarantee that we can get anything done that the police have not done already. We don't have their expertise in investigations," he announced. She fumed.

"Steven stopped both Team Magma and Aqua with a ten year old's help. We're more than capable of stopping this."

Wattson rebutted. "They were disillusioned idiots who had no grasp on the magnitude of the goals they were trying to achieve. Magma and Aqua, they were disruptive as hell and maybe even murderous, but they weren't killers unless they needed to be to progress in their visions."

"The guys that attacked the museum, they are suicidal and fatally aggressive. They killed their own men in the gas attack for carrying out loud! They would probably have killed more than the twenty or so people in the museum had the gas leaked out. They're terrorists for Arceus's sake! We don't know half way where to start to track them down. We know nothing about them!"

"And wouldn't this be the best way to learn?"

"We may provoke them, whoever they are, by getting involved."

"By getting _involved_," she stressed, "we may very well be sending a message to them that we won't tolerate whatever the hell they're doing!"

Wattson stopped arguing, partially due to knowing that arguing with Winona in her current state was a losing battle from the get go, and partially due to the fact that he knew she was right.

Of course the final decision lay with the champion, and Wallace seemed to be taking his time to chew over the debate that raged between them. But Wattson admitted that the decision would be obvious. He knows the chaos needs to stop. Wallace wasn't stupid.

Wattson and Winona stood motionless encased in awkward silence as they waited for Wallace to say something. Restless, Wattson decided to ask the question that bit at him ever since Winona called up the brief meeting two days ago.

"Winona, what are you doing here anyways? Shouldn't you be under medical watch?" She was. Although there was little the doctor could do to prevent her, in her rage, from leaving after a day in the emergency room. She could still recall him whispering to himself, as if to remind himself that allowing her to leave early was alright: "she was stable the whole 24 hours. She'll be fine. No side effects. Yup she'll be fine." _No side effects? _Winona's shoulders slouched exhaustedly.

_Yeah right._

"I was released early. The toxin had little effect on me," Winona replied nonchalantly.

"Little?"

"I was knocked out for a while, but I came around soon after. No big deal."

Wattson was shocked at her revelation. "What do you mean 'no big deal'? You could have been killed! You're bloody lucky it didn't do worse. Who knows whether it'll affect you later on."

"Well, the doctor didn't stop me..."

"Winona!"

A yawn escaped her.

Wallace finally returned with his answer.

"Very well. Winona, we will begin our own investigations and corroborate with Interpol by the end of the week," he announced. Winona nodded her satisfaction. Wattson had expected it, and nodded as well. "We tell Interpol tomorrow. In the meantime, please get some rest Winona. You look quite awful, for your usual elegant, beautiful self" he continued, almost flippantly.

She yawned again. "Yeah, alright."

Although Winona was quite certain she would not, like previous nights, get any.


	7. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

_Interpol HQ, Mauville City, 12th December 2005_

_18:23_

"Where you are going, watch. Always. If you here approaching footsteps, you must have a plan of attack. Pull off your gloves when handling stacks of paper. Human skin is sensitive enough to detect slight pressure changes. You can keep track of the exact number of sheets in your hands that way, lest you leave one behind. Yes, I'm serious. No, this is not something that should be disregarded as 'small talk.' Am I clear?"

"I... err, yes sir. It won't happen again..." A young investigator had collided with a charging Looker as she left the commissioner's office, and was now wondering who in Arceus's name spit in that guy's coffee this morning.

"Don't worry about it. The guy has the manners of a zangoose who just got thrown into a nest of seviper. And the tact to tell twenty five different reasons why that analogy was not wholly acccurate. Brilliant man though. Worked out the entire Team Galactic case in Sinnoh, the whole darn thing, planned their take down, _and _inflitrated them in a week. Probably has asperger's syndrome or something..." Her colleague enlightened.

"Mmm. probably. Now where is that NMR spectrum sheet? I had it just a moment ago..."

* * *

The commissioner of the Mauville police force shook his head as he saw one of Interpol's best berate a young investigator about how she should carry her files.

_This isn't going to be easy..._

And just as he finished that thought, Looker was right in front of him, back ramrod straight and excessively thick overcoat immaculate.

"Commissioner. After days of ventilation and the use of an assortment of gas sensors, the HazMat unit has declared that the museum is almost completely decontaminated. I should be able to continue investigations tomorrow. It is unfortunate we couldn't get there immediately after the attack, but I have a hunch that some crucial evidence still remains."

_Well at least he's taking the time to talk slowly. Means he's in a good mood._

The commissioner straightened in his seat, and prepared to tell Looker the less than thrilling news.

"That's all well and good but I didn't call you up for another status report. Unfortunately, higher forces with string pulling powers forced my hand. The Hoenn League wants in on the investigation." The commissioner sighed. "Gym leaders will be assigned to help you out. "

If the agent had heard that last statement, he certainly did not show it. Looker, ever stoic, kept his boss in a state of anxiety as to when and how he'll crack. Interpol and police departments in general had always had a strained relation with the Leagues. The Team Aqua and Magma fiasco only compounded the problem, with the entire Hoenn police force stumped and humiliated when it took little more than minor League intervention to completely shut down the eco-terrorists. And Looker wasn't not icy to just about _anyone_, let alone League guys.

The commissioner continued, "Listen, the last thing I want is some uppity pokémon whisperer messing around with our work. But I haven't got a say in the matter. All gym leaders have forensics training, and they'll be accompanied by League experts, so they won't be complete deadweight. Wattson will help with the interrogation of that captured magneton. Winona, Fortree leader will be joining you at the museum tomorrow. She'll be taking on the brunt of the investigations for the League. As of tomorrow morning, she's your partner."

Looker replied this time, the courtesy to speak clearly long gone. "The Fortree leader of gyms?! Her gym got attacked soon after the museum. The place is still being decontaminated by HazMat units, as we speak. She should still be hospitalised."

"She apparently got released early. Anyways, her perspective could shed some light on the case. Just remember. She's your partner now. I know you have a tendency to do it, but don't-"

The doors swung open once more, the space where Looker had stood mere moments earlier now completely vacant, save for the tiny sparkles of dust floating in the air.

The commissioner sighed. "-interrogate her."

* * *

_Fortree Pokémon Centre, Fortree City, 12th December 2005_

_18:30_

"Gru Ariaaaa"

Winona jolted awake at a nudge from her Altaria. Fatigue had crept up on her sleep deprived mind, and she found her head bowed awkwardly forward, whilst the rest of her body lay slouched in the seat she occupied. Groaning, Winona pulled herself up and looked around, trying to gain a bearing on where she actually was. The stark white interior of a hospital room greeted her. Her still foggy mind failed to recall what she was doing here until a soft feathered form on a bed, laying besides her Altaria, caught her attention. Winona sighed, reaching to pet her swellow's unconscious body whilst making a mental note to not fall asleep in your pokémon's medical ward during visiting hours again.

"Riaaaaa…." Altaria called teasingly at Winona's drowsiness.

"Yeah yeah. Hey, you're lucky you weren't roaming around outside your poké ball during the gas attack. If you were in a coma like Swellow, well I might've fallen asleep _on_ you during visits. Your wings just look so comfy…" Winona smirked whilst prodding her Altaria's down with her finger.

"And you're too fidgety for me to do that if you're awake."

Altaria batted away Winona's finger.

"Well it's true…" She replied in a sing song manner.

Winona adjusted in her seat. With the fog in her mind clear, Winona looked down to her wristwatch, hoping she didn't waste too much time asleep. 6.30 pm, just hours before she had to fly back to Mauville.

_Way_ too long.

Standing up, Winona realised that her drowsiness hadn't completely worn off. The gym leader almost stumbled into the bed her swellow was currently lying on before catching herself. The effects of sleep depravity returned and brought with them the haunting memories that taunted her whenever her eyes closed. The visions of the Orre uprising.

Winona stumbled once more.

"Grmmmuaa?"

"I'm…I'm alright. Just tired."

Altaria shrieked in defiance. The avian was not convinced.

"Ok, ok. It was those weird visions for a moment. It's nothing."

Altaria cooed thoughtfully, before sticking her head forward, urging Winona to continue. The gym leader knew she wasn't going to hear the end of this. Her altaria deeply cared for the wellbeing of Winona's entire team, and that included her. Winona fell back into her seat, squinting and rubbing at her brow.

"Yeah. I don't know why they keep popping up…I just…." She sighed. "What do you make of them?"

"Tarrrr…" Altaria cooed again, before chirping a rather teasing reply.

Winona was perplexed at the sudden snipe her Altaria made at her. "Meh. Maybe you're right. Maybe I am losing it. It was just so….real. Oh, and could that aerodactyl fly… I tell you, it beats your fluttering any day."

"Gruuuu… Ria-gruuuuu." Altaria puffs up her feathers in pride.

"Mmm. That is so true. My subconscious _is_ pretty messed up. I mean, for me to imagine that an apex predator like an aerodactyl could ever outfly you? Impossible! In fact, how could anything outfly you? To even consider that any pokemon could match your incredibly woolly wings. Dispel the thought!"

Altaria hit her up the head with her wing, before humming a relieved answer once she realised Winona hadn't lost her good humour.

"Yeah yeah. Thanks anyways. Well, we really should be heading back. I need to fly over to Mauville soon, and I also have a few reports to read up on on the case."

Altaria made sure Winona stood up properly, helping her to the door.

"Good night Swellow," Winona called as she left the room.

* * *

_Mauville National Museum, Mauville City, 13th December 2005_

_9:25_

Winona flew in the night before. Granting herself a night to try to rest off the exhaustion that now seemed to plague her whenever she flew, the avian trainer was at least sharp enough to commit to a day of investigation. Winona had brought her own team of League investigators to help find the culprit, and after discussing the reports from Interpol with them, she prepared an action plan as to how to approach the investigation.

The site upon which the museum was built upon was a concentrated mass of movement, with policemen and inspectors dotted across the entire main exhibition hall.

"It looks like they started without us. Let's meet up with the agent," Winona said to the League investigators, as she led them towards the steps of the museum, specifically towards the man who was at the main entrance, adorning an unusually thick coat for the climate. As Looker noticed the arrival of the League investigators, his probing gaze fell on Winona.

"Good morning Looker. Nice to meet you again," she announced with a smile, more out of politeness than an eagerness to see him, or anyone for that matter. She was still too tired to really want to see _anyone._ Winona simultaneously stuck her hand out in greeting. Looker pulled out a notepad from beneath his coat in reply.

"When did you first notice the gas seep into your gym?"

Winona was caught out by the question. "Err.. about quarter to ten-"

"Anything extraordinary prior to the gas attack, did you notice?"

_Err….what did he say?_

"Oh! No, no. Nothi-"

"What is gym leader Falkner's condition and your medical diagnosis after the attack, what was it?"

Winona decided to save the questions for when she was more prepared for them, especially since she did not want to be painfully reminded of Falkner's condition at a time like this. "Agent, I can answer these questions later. Right now we have a museum to investigate. Shall we?" Winona gestured towards the main exhibition hall. Looker nodded, before pocketing his notepad and handing Winona a brown folder. He began to turn towards the hall. "Read the decontamination report and victim testimonies. Update yourself on the progress our forensics divisions have made on the chemical composition of the gas. I'll be directing the investigations in the museum. In the meantime I believe it would be most beneficial if you search for any suspects that Interpol has missed. A taillow chick in a tree, for example."

Taken slightly aback by the statement, she scoffed a reply: "Ha, very funny. Well if you're done, I think we should-"

Looker interrupted her, again. "Listen Miss Winona. I appreciate the concern displayed by the Hoenn League but there is little that you and your people can do to help in the investigation. Please file a detailed report regarding the gas attack on your gym including all medical records on Leader Falkner, yourself and any of your pokemon that were affected by the gas. I will be inside the exhibition hall if you have any further queries." Looker left for the main exhibition hall.

Winona's foggy mind finally sharpened to clarity when she decided enough was enough. The gym leader followed after Looker, calling out to him.

_What's with this guy?_

"Hey, Hey! Looker!" Looker pivoted on the spot, his normally intense gaze softened to one of mild annoyance and disinterest.

"You listen, agent. I am not really bothered at how you view the League's involvement in this, but believe me when I say that our experts are no less accomplished than your lackeys. Or do I have to remind you of the Aqua-Magma fiasco?"

Looker's stoic expression seemed to crease ever so slightly at that statement. He stared at her for a few terse moments, before answering: "Have your investigators meet mine in the Archive room. Be sure to take a few gas masks as a precaution. Read the report first, then meet us there." Looker left at that.

Winona smirked. _That's more like it._ "Alright. I'll join you soon."

* * *

The Interpol agent led the two teams of investigators up through the museum, instructing a pair of men to scour each exhibition hall they passed. His critical gaze stayed locked on the corridors they passed, scanning everything, searching for anything out of place. Once all the men save for half a dozen were allocated to a room, Looker proceeded to the Archives room, where his aerial account hunch would be judged to be correct or not. He passed a couple of noteworthy displays on the way, an exhibition on Hoenn geological history, an expose on the red and blue orbs of Hoenn, the only aerodactyl fossil to be discovered in Hoenn, every one of them trying to pry his attention away from his central task with their promises of satisfying the insatiable curiosity he had. But the agent continued straight on, until he arrived at his destination.

Looker began work.

"Have any blood samples swabbed and sent to the forensics team back at HQ. Retrieve anything out of the ordinary: empty bullet casings, fired rounds, loose pokemon scales or fur, anything. I want to see this museum spotless by the time we're done scouring the place for clues." He turned to a lead Interpol investigator on the case. "Liutenant, pay particular attention to this room." Looker's associate nodded in reply and instructed his men to ensure that this room was swiped clean. Looker meanwhile, moved to the Archive terminal in the room. After swabbing the keyboard for fingerprints, he accessed the restricted document storage catalogue with the password provided to him by the owner of the museum, and searched for aerial battle accounts in the Orre Uprising. Looker was sure that those documents were the key to finding the murderer. _Unless I am wrong, which is a rare occurrence, if I am._

"Sir, over here!"

The very same lieutenant called out to Looker halfway through the search. Looker turned around to see his associate hold up a small blue shard. "It appears to be a scale of a pokémon of some sort," the investigator deduced.

Looker allowed himself the slightest of grins. The killer wasn't as immaculate as he was with the assassinations of the bird trainers. _Getting sloppy now, are we? _"Good. Have it bagged and send it back to Interpol headquarters immediately. I want that scale analysed and the pokémon identified."

Looker turned back to the Archive terminal, and continued his search.

* * *

The avian gym leader found herself semi-collapsed on a nearby bench, groaning as fatigue slithered its way up into her mind once more and bit down harder than ever before. Winona squinted and rubbed her brow. In her hand was the victim accounts of the gas attack, recorded memories of an experience she herself faced, and would rather not relive. But for the sake of the investigation, Winona had read it. It was written by the SWAT and the boy who had survived the museum attack. The SWAT's account was painful enough. Just the mentions of schizophrenia and tortured, writhing people awoke the dark demons of guilt that tormented her whenever she thought of Falkner. But it was the child's story that really tore her down. He not only saw what happened, but inhaled a small amount of the toxin. Written in simple, innocent language, his descriptions of the experiences he briefly faced were tear jerking. He was mortified by them. He apparently felt a biting, tingling sensation, like someone was heating his fingers over an open flame.

It ended there, but what horrors would he have faced had he been in contact with the gas for longer? Winona hoped that Falkner wasn't locked in that traumatic experience as he lays comatose in the Fortree General hospital, but deep down, she knew he faced something similar, if not altogether worse. She closed the folder, and tried to shake off her stupor.

Taking a sip from her thermos, Winona craned her head upwards to the sky, wishing the sun's vibrant rays would burn off her fatigue. Alas, the wish was not fulfilled, and that slap of reality reminded the gym leader that she was to join the investigation in the Archives room. Winona took one more sip, and moved on.

* * *

"Have you found anything yet?" she asked.

Looker wasted no time in acknowledging Winona's entrance into the Archives room, replying instead by gesturing towards a sealed bag with the scale. Looker's eyes remained glued to the archive computer, searching through every entry in the database of documents pertaining to the Orre uprising.

_Collection of journal entries from Hoenn servicemen from the Orre Uprising – 20th -25th Air Divisions _

"Bingo."

Winona walked over to the computer which had become the fixation of Looker's attention. Looker found the location at which the documents were stored in the museum, and dashed towards it. Winona was left feeling perplexed at his sudden movement, and leaned down to peer at the screen.

_What's so important about journal entries from the Orre Uprising? _

Winona found her perplexity compounded, and her heartbeat race at the mention of the war again. She idly tapped at the desk with the side of her right foot, wondering what could have possibly have attracted such immediate attention from the Interpol agent.

* * *

Winona gasped.

Gushing wind blew past her face. The dark of night overtook her senses. She was flying again. But she wasn't the one _flying._

Tiny highlights glinted off the edge of her vision. They were steady and unmoving, despite her hurtling through the air. Aerodactyl crests. An animalistic growl rumbled through her head. The sharp whistle of air seemed to become louder. A crackling sound and a man's heavy breaths joined the cacophony. A bright orange glow suddenly faded into existence just ahead of her. It was fire.

It was a town burning. Winona could just make out the groans of fire-weakened buildings collapsing in front of her. An explosion percussed her right ear drum. The eerie shrieks of incoming projectiles rang with the chaos. She hurtled closer and closer to the inferno, and could now pick out the miniscule silhouetted figures of people running from the fire. They weren't stopping to try to put it out, for the inferno was too intense. They weren't carrying weapons to defend themselves. They were just running, screaming. Civilians.

She continued to hurtle down towards the people. A different growl then emanated from the Aerodactyl, as if its vocal chords were clogged. She dived ever closer. Suddenly another explosion went off. It was right in front of her. The Aerodactyl had released a flamethrower attack.

The screams grew louder. And clearer. They weren't just exclamations of fear. They were screaming "Aquila."

* * *

_Missing._

Looker had suspected as much. The documents were stolen. The motive for the attack? Possibly. But why go to so much trouble and kill your own men for it? If the culprit had the resources to use biological warfare, he could easily have the tools for a heist. It would be so much cleaner, and cheaper.

Why else then?

The box in his hands, Looker made his way back to the Archives Room.

* * *

"Fire."

"Aquila."

"Aquila."

"Excuse me?"

Winona snapped out at Looker's voice. She groaned and wobbled, but held firm. Her foot caught the edge of the table.

"Hmm?" she muttered.

"You were mumbling something. No matter. We are almost finished here." Looker tagged the box, and proceeded to tell the lieutenant that he and Winona would be returning to Interpol HQ. He then explained to Winona: "We have a magneton to question. And I doubt Leader Wattson would appreciate your absence on such an important part of the investigation."

"Ok. Let's go."

Winona turned to follow Looker out of the room, when her grogginess caused her to trip on something on the floor. She stumbled momentarily, before turning back to identify an aged piece of paper as the trigger for her misstep. Looker noticed it immediately, and ran to pick it up. His eyes widened in disbelief.

Its header read:_ Collection of journal entries from Hoenn servicemen from the Orre Uprising – 21__st__ Air Division._

"What is it?" Winona questioned.

"What he wants." Looker answered. "McCann was apparently in possession of several documents on the aerial battles of the war. Despite being well hidden, the documents were stolen. With similar documents in the museum missing, it only seems logical that whoever perpetrated the gas attacks is also our avian trainer serial killer. Do you know anything about these documents?"

Winona shook her head. "No."

Looker led them towards a police car that would take them back to Interpol. Winona could only stare at the ground as they walked, mind reeling from both the sudden return of the hallucination and Looker's startling revelations.

* * *

_Interpol HQ, Mauville City, 13th December 2005_

_16:54_

The captured magneton turned out to be a dead lead. No matter how much Wattson and his pokémon coerced, ordered, or pleaded, the semi-sentient electromagnetic creature refused to divulge any information, even going so far as to explode fifteen minutes into the interrogation. It annoyed Looker how the pokémon had to be revived and the questions repeated only to turn out that it was just as steely mouthed before it exploded. Nevertheless, Looker had another clue to follow up, and the mildly aggravating day had little effect on his confidence that this case could be cracked soon.

He first sifted through a synopsis of the Orre Uprising and the events that led up to it, acquired from the museum.

_A summary of the Orre Uprising:_

_Declaration: September 20th 1860_

_Last shot fired: December 20th 1864_

_Location: Hoenn_

_Result: Hoenn victory_

Factions: Hoenn Armed Forces, Orre Expeditionary Force

Strength: Hoenn Armed Forces: 5 959 850 servicemen, Orre Expeditionary Force: 3 148 321 servicemen.

_Casualties: approximately 4.8 million._

_Major theatres of war: Northern Front, Battle for the Archipelagos, Central desert campaign for Route 11, Eastern Front._

_1859: Conflict between the two largest political parties in Hoenn escalated. The main political party led by President Harling Wilson and the opposition party led by Clarence Gloucester with some military leaders and Orre in close support. At the peak of the tensions the leader of the opposition party was murdered. It is suspected that it was ordered by his military allies. The military leaders of the opposition party replaced him and accused the leading party of assassination. They attempt a coup against the main party in retaliation. It failed and tensions escalated further. _

_1860: Both sides began preparation for war. Civil war broke loose on September 20th. The opposition began to lose ground quite quickly until they called for Orre intervention. Orre saw this as an opportunity to weaken and influence Hoenn to gain its resources, especially since Orre lacked many of its own resources. They sided with the opposition but by then the opposition was defeated in Hoenn. They counterattacked. After a brief naval campaign, Orre forces capture Route 114 on the north of Hoenn. _

_1861: They proceed to launch a pincer movement along the middle and west of Hoenn, down Route 111 and towards Old Mauville. Minor towns are captured by Orre along the way. However, the west side movement gets delayed due to natural resistance of the Meteor Falls. They continue a naval campaign to capture Dewford Town, Mossdeep City and Evergrande City. _

_1862: There was heavy resistance at Old Mauville After severe losses from both sides Old Mauville was captured. _

_1863: Slateport fell soon. Rustboro falls under heavy attack but remains under Hoenn control. Orre forces move east towards Fortree and Lilycove. Fortree fell after a brief resurgence from Hoenn forces. Lilycove staved off the Orre attack. Rustboro City is liberated._

_1864: Fortree is liberated. Mauville is liberated. Slateport is liberated. The Hoenn mainland is completely liberated by June. The Hoenn Archipelago towns and cities are liberated soon after. Orre agree to sign the 1864 armistice, ending the war._

Still no mention of aerial battles or anything flight related. Looker had his chin clenched tight between his fingers. _But there's this._ Looker turned to a folder towards the right of his desk, and carefully removed an aged slip of paper from it. The same one as the one Winona found in the museum. He read it.

_27th September 1863_

_Private Entry from Capt. Richard Schaffer, Leader of Hoenn's 21st Air Division_

_We were going to be scrambled to protect Fortree. Guess the higher ups finally realised keeping my flight guarding Rustboro wasn't going to save Hoenn. About time to. The five of us have been getting pretty restless. Even Rainer is getting moody. Good thing Lloyd was busying himself sending Morse messages to his pals in other units. Heaven knows what he'd do (or make us do) if the guy hadn't preoccupied himself at the telegraph over the last couple of days. Needless to say we were all raring to go. The flight there would be a long one, but I've been training up Aither's endurance for long enough. That flygon even outlasted Rainer's Charizard in an endurance run. He'll be fine. And he would enjoy spreading his wings a bit more than just hovering above Rustboro. _

_We were told to expect heavy attack from all dimensions: land and air. It's been a real slugfest apparently. Thank Arceus it hasn't gotten to trenches just yet, but judging by how important that city is to our defence, we might just be forced to start digging in. _

_The scale of the Fortree siege had got me thinking for a while. Aquila will be there. I'm certain of it. According to reports from other units only large scale conflicts attracted the mercenary's attention. Guess he's waiting for a challenge. Well, maybe we can make his attendance worth his while. He's supposedly killed thousands in battle, tearing up the entire region single-handedly. Every time we hear of a battle with Aquila, the leash the commanders has on us just seems that much tighter. It's painful, knowing that we could be out there shooting him down. It's not because of propaganda fuelled hate too. Sure, he's killed many. We've killed hundreds too. And it's never a pleasant feeling to see someone get mangled by an attack your mount fired. Yeah, it feels exhilarating to shoot down another aerial master in the heat of the moment, but you really have to close it all out when you try to sleep at night. It gets to you. _

_No, it's the knowledge that we aren't doing a bloody thing beyond keeping this city safe. Hell, the generals must really be thinking that we'd be eaten up by him in seconds. That's the only logical reason I can see of not letting us fight at other major battles. Our apparent incompetence. But who am I to talk. I'm just an idle captain with too much time to think._

_Fortunately for my sanity I haven't spent all that time brooding. I've managed to compile quite a bit of info on our not-so-friendly neighbourhood mercenary. He appears to be born in Orre. Our prisoners seem to mention how he doesn't take orders from most generals. Just seems to help them around. So he really must be a freelancer trying to cash in on Orre's rather substandard aerial units. Not a service to the country. Hmm. I guess he thinks chivalry is gone and all that. Either that or he's as cold blooded as all the generals try to get us to believe. He's killed civilians and POWs upon request without so much as a second's hesitation apparently._

_I've also managed to learn of a couple of reports from survivors who could get a decent look at Aquila's mount. None of them have an idea as to what it is. It's apparently stone coloured and reptilian. Hmm, a rock or ground type maybe? Other than that, we've gotten conflicting reports. Conflicting except for its speed and agility. Every report seemed to overemphasise how swiftly it seems to slash into their flights and just tear them apart before anyone else could blink. I've tried finding out what kind of manoeuvres Aquila pulls, but most reports seem to leave out how he banks and counterattacks. One did mention that his manoeuvring appeared rather basic at times, and incredibly complex at others. Trying out new manoeuvres maybe? Or what if he was restless like we are, and is simply trying to stay sharp? _

_Whatever it is, he's intriguing. And it's the intriguing ones that we ought to watch out for, right?_

Looker replaced the journal entry into his folder.

_Curious. _Some sort of cover up took place to erase the aerial battles of the war from history. A good cover up as well. It appeared only McCann and the museum knew about them. But our killer found out about them somehow, and killed others in search for it. The missing journal entries in the museum confirmed that the killer has an obsession with aerial battles in the Orre war. And if this entry was anything to follow up on, the main focus of all the entries would have been an Orre mercenary. What relation does the killer have with this Aquila? The museum was attacked. Over thirty people dead. Some his own men. The murders of those avian trainers as well. Why display unnecessary and almost counterproductive violence in acquiring these entries? Why not settle with silent theft?

And then there's Winona. Looker spotted her growing exhaustion. He thought little of it, instead focusing on finding clues in the museum. But the way she had acted at the computer terminal. Her abrupt loss of focus. Her nigh inaudible mumbles. Of fire. And of Aquila.

_Suspicious._

Looker gazed out his window thoughtfully.

* * *

_The Mauve Grand Hotel, Mauville City, 13th December 2005_

_22:49_

Winona replaced her copy into her folder.

It matched seamlessly with her vision a few hours ago. Aquila was a mercenary that killed thousands, including the civilians she saw. A stone coloured pokémon as his mount, described as a demon. That was the aerodactyl. The reptilian beast that no one in the Hoenn ranks knew of. It was understandable. They were supposed to be extinct for millennia.

_Well then how did one appear a hundred years before fossil revival tech was invented?_

That wasn't half of it. There's also a psychopath wielding a biological weapon capable of wiping out entire cities of people, if the status reports were anything to go by. And he or she was obsessed with Aquila.

_So are my hallucinations._

They were getting disturbingly relevant to the case. Winona squinted and rubbed her brow.

_What triggered them this morning? And what could they mean?_

_It might be time to get some help._


	8. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

_Mossdeep City Gym, 15th December 2005_

_11:45_

Even as far as twin psychics go, Tate and Liza were special. They had, at twelve, more responsibilities than most people had in their entire lives. League duties in Mossdeep city, from taking gym challenges, managing pokémon trainer conduct, and aiding trainer education to enforcing pokémon welfare were well within their day to day roles. Granted, there were a few misgivings amongst the Mossdeep residents and League members when they were first elected to take over Mossdeep Gym, with many feeling the job would have been too much for just about any other child of their age, or that the twins were being robbed of a normal childhood. But as soon as the twins took over, there were obvious differences in how Mossdeep duties were handled. All positive. Tate and Liza latched onto their jobs as enthusiastically and as confidently as they would have done if training a new psychic type, and brought about some massive overhauls with how pokémon treatment was handled. The misgivings ended shortly after.

Their telepathic abilities were unique as well, since they didn't inherit any 'special gift' from their parents like most psychics; their father was an astronaut at the Mossdeep Space Centre and their mother currently works with the League helping with their administrative duties. And perhaps as a result of their bizarre development of the abilities from quite literally nowhere, the gym leaders had a greater affinity for psychic types than just about any other trainer, telepathic or not, in the entire region. And that's not even mentioning their psychic affinity for each other.

"Hi Winona!"

"Hi Winona!"

Said flying-type trainer was marching up the steps to Mossdeep Gym when she heard the greetings, which were simultaneous and as clear as if the twins were right next to her. It prompted Winona to turn around looking for them, slightly confused.

"Liza? Tate?"

_They said I should meet them inside, right?_

_Oh..._

Winona chuckled and shook her head as she continued up the steps into the reception of the observatory themed gym. She would never get used to their psychic ventriloquist act. Just like the last time she visited, which was awhile ago in her defence, Tate and Liza shouted to her in greeting, at the same time no less, _from their office deep in the gym_, whilst she was still outside. _After_ they sensed her coming by, of course.

"Hi Tate! Liza! How are you two?" Winona shouted out as she walked past the gym's reception and deeper into the building.

"Great, thanks! We'll be..."

"...just there! And we're eager to help!"

Help indeed. Winona wouldn't see anybody else about her hallucinations. In some other case, she might have had herself rechecked into a hospital. But with what she saw so vivid and so relevant to the investigation, and straddling the line between ridiculous coincidence and extrasensory in nature, she felt a trusted pair of psychics would be the greatest help towards her.

"Thanks again. I hope I'm not being too much of a bother." She projected back as she opened a door into the main battle area, which also served as a hub to the corridors that led deeper into the building. Tate and Liza agreed to meet here there.

"No, no problem. We knew you'd want to see us."

"No, no problem. We knew you'd want to see us."

Winona was close to the Mossdeep gym leaders, as she was to all the leaders in the region. Growing up in the close presence of the former Fortree Gym Leader as well as Falkner's dad meant she was never too far from a type specialist who handled League affairs in a town, whether they were a rookie gym trainer in Lavaridge or Juan in Sootopolis. However, Tate and Liza, besides their Psychic specialisation, which often had little association with the Flying types she grew up with, were both only inducted into the League a year ago.

Nevertheless, the gym leaders were quite a closely knit bunch, and the twins agreed to help her out with her episodes, as quietly as possible.

Taps and clatters echoed through the battle area.

"Okay, I'm pretty sure I heard footsteps that time, so unless they're echoing those psychically as well..."Winona trailed off as she searched for sight of the two gym leaders entering through one of the corridors into the battle area.

Her azure eyes instead found two kids running down a corridor from the left, eager to greet her like she was a fun aunt of theirs. Winona kept a smile on her face, but she couldn't help but feel a tad uneasy about the whole situation. It wasn't that she didn't believe that there were twelve year olds who could give her sound mental advice – those two were experts in what they do regardless of their age and she knew it – but that she was still acutely aware that she was sneaking away and placing a burden on the two pre-teens, whom she knew would be quite distraught if they failed to help, regardless of how complex her situation was right now.

_Though, why the heck am I covering this up with a fake smile? Of all the people to try it on..._

"Hey guys, it's so nice to finally see you. Ya' know, rather than just hearing you," Winona quipped whilst ruffling Tate's hair and giving Liza a little hug.

Liza giggled, whilst Tate grinned, still beaming up at her. Whether it was about Winona's quip about the ventriloquism, being aware that Winona was covering up her feelings with a fake smile, or knowing that _she knew_ that it was pretty stupid to try to do it, Winona'll never know.

"Over here."

"Over here."

Tate opened the door to a dimly lit guest area at the gym, whilst Liza ushered her in. The three sat down in near complete privacy, save for a ralts, kirlia and drowzee that were already inside the room. To help them with her diagnosis, or just hanging around, Winona didn't know either. If they do hang around that is. She wasn't quite well-versed in the social interactions of psychic-types.

Tate and Liza's dual gazes shook Winona back to focus. Their eyes almost seemed to glow in the dim surroundings. Gone were the two playful twelve year olds. The psychic gym leaders were in the room, one hundred percent.

"Now, please tell us..."

"Or even better, show us..."

"The problem."

"The problem."

The psychic pokémon seemed to stare at her as she prepared her answer. And amidst the scrutiny of the telepathists, Winona took a deep breath. "It started the day we found Falkner's dad..."

* * *

_Interpol HQ, Mauville City,_

_14:34_

"Patterns. Patterns."

The wooden library was oak. Single trunk red oak, approximately 50 years old to be precise.

"What do we know about him... his accomplices, dead. His pokémon..."

"The magneton is currently, how shall I say, uncooperative. Hmm, yes. It is trained, and well. It is a troublesome pokémon, yes. Metallic brain makes psychic mind reading difficult. What else?"

"His garchomp can be assumed to be well trained like the magneton of course, seeing as it is erhhmm..._cooperative_... in selective murder. Where did he get them? Are gibles not native to Sinnoh?"

Darker shade than natural bark and slightly aged appearance. Ageing agent used. Commercial brand given the intensity of the shade. Looker can so far as guess the brand.

"Hmm... He may have lived in Sinnoh... Otherwise, possible sources? Exclusive breeders? Unlikely. Gible breeders are extremely rare. Still, hmm, a lead to pursue...what of a stolen League pokémon? Possible but none were reported missing yet. Privately caught pokémon, hmm, yes, is likely. To the extent they were trained means..."

Slightly deformed graining on the wood seems to indicate it was partially infected with some disease. Deformation is canker-esque. Probably of fungal origin.

"They must be strong trainers, yes, League certified to join the gym circuit. They're pokémon must be registered through their pokéballs. But ah! Unfortunate. Population is too large to accurately identify the magneton or garchomp."

Looker's eyes drifted off from the bookcase in front of him.

"Refresh, could be helpful no? Gas attack. McCann hit. Orre Uprising war documents. Targeted gym leaders were Falkner and Winona. Falkner hit, and down. Winona not. Motive, still completely unknown."

"Gas composition contains a hallucinogen. But interesting, an established toxin was not used. This is new. New compounds. Oh, the toxin...hmm..."

Looker's left hand grasped his chin firmly. He leaned forward, his nose almost touching a wall, his right hand running across its surface.

"Test run for a new biological weapon? Oh, possible black market implications, mhhmm . Regardless, there is major chemical manufacturing involved. The hallucinogen is a very, very complex compound. It stimulated the visual and auditory cortexes in a way that was, hmm, quite _unique_, if the reports are to be believed. Unlike any other chemical in our databases. Implications?"

His eyes flickered in realisation.

Looker smirked knowingly. His fingers pressed hard into the wall, approaching a black speck-

"We have a different species of ant infesting the headquarters! This cannot wait longer. I will alert pest control momentarily."

Sometimes staring at something _really really hard_ helped him think. Looker stood up from his seat and wondered around the room, deep in thought, mouth loose with his inferences. Long gone was the controlled, deliberate elocution that he adopted when speaking to anyone outside the police, and back were the rapid fire, unique diction and bizarre clause order that had frustrated his superiors for close to two decades.

Twenty years, and he was still fairly unaccustomed to 'normal' speech. It mattered little to Looker though. To change one's speech is trivial. To change how one speaks in his mind however...

"Not derived from any pokémon produced toxin, or any biological toxin that we know of. Not even close, no, we don't have any idea about even considering a lead to making an anti-toxin. Oooh, way too complex for a small firm. Also way too complex for this to be the only use of the compound. A waste it would be, yes. More gas attacks are inevitable. Although, it wasn't a swift, nor was it an efficient weapon as it should be. There were survivors who were exposed to the compound for approximately five minutes. Gym leader Winona was unconscious in the presence of the compound for two hours. Gym leader Falkner is still alive, albeit in critical condition. Maybe the difficulty to create an anti-toxin is its specialty..."

Looker sighed. "To conclude: most likely murder suspect is a skilled pokémon trainer with access to high level pokémon with connections to an external party that is creating a complex hallucinogenic toxin..."

"...which is still getting me nowhere."

_Hmm...that's a lovely colour..._

"Green patina. Age lines. Corrosion is definite. Lustre is lacking. Hmm, yes. Typical reaction of the copper metal and the...Ooohh, interesting..."

_Perhaps the toxin..._

A rapping of the door to his office drew a third of his attention. The other two-thirds were currently focused on the copper window frame of his office.

Looker was not pleased at the interruption."What is it? The investigation has just revved up in intensity..."

Indeed. He was wafting air around the window frame towards his nose now.

The commissioner opened the door. "Looker, we've got a breakthrough in the case. We have ourselves another crime scene, and a snitch."

Looker was out of the room in a flash, though he did find the time to give the commissioner some sage advice.

"Sir, please clean up after your bi-weekly salt beef on rye. You've attracted more ants."

* * *

Tate and Liza were silent as they made their final conclusions. Winona'd be fooling herself if she thought she could read what was on their minds, but she could at least see that they appeared somewhat tense.

"Guys, is everything alright?" The last thing she wanted to do was to trouble the two psychics any more than she already had.

They continued to stare down at their hands, resting neatly on their laps. The room was silent. Then suddenly the drowzee turned towards her sharply, eyes normally sleepy and subdued now boring deeply into Winona's own. The kirlia and ralts paid her similar attention.

"Tate, Liza? What's up?" Concern grew in the flying-type gym leader.

Then all of a sudden, the pokémon dropped their gaze, as if no longer interested in their guest. At the same time, the psychics spoke.

"Nothing's up Winona!"

"Nothing's up Winona!"

They were chipper again. Reassuring smiles spread across their faces.

"Everything is just fine. You just seem to be..."

"...under a lot of stress. Sometimes the mind makes up things that seem real and connected..."

"... to help you deal with the frustration of not making much progress..."

"...in a case like this. Especially if you don't have enough..."

"Sleep."

"Sleep."

Tate and Liza's voices melded into one at the last word.

Winona was perplexed.

"But I've been getting the visions before I was on the case. And it just happened to be so relevant?" Winona wasn't convinced that was true. It doesn't add up.

"You were still stressed about poor Falkner right? And sometimes..."

"...the mind keeps working on something even if..."

"...you're not thinking about it all the time. You must have a really strong..."

"...subconscious Winona! Dreams also help organise thoughts Winona. Did you know..."

"...that? Maybe you were making the link..."

"...to the dead bird trainers, using the flying visions."

"It would help solve the case!"  
"It would help solve the case!"

"I, I... are you sure? Could it maybe be something else?" Winona could not think it coincidence. And the dream idea, it just didn't seem right. Not something so vivid and accurate.

_That's not it. It, it can't be it._

"Yeap, it's nothing serious."

"Yeap, it's nothing serious."

Winona resigned herself. "Alright guys, thanks for your help. Do you want to grab a bite to eat? My treat of course."

"That sounds great! How about the sandwich bar at the warf!"

"That sounds great! How about the pizza restaurant downtown!" The twins suggested as they started towards the gym's entrance. A brief double take ensued, with the first conflicting thought occurring between them the whole morning, before a massive argument erupted about which place served the better food.

Winona followed them out, a step behind. The kirlia and drowzee held her gaze just briefly, but it was enough to communicate their thoughts, and deepen her suspicions.

_Beware._

* * *

_Route 111, Hoenn, 11th January 1861_

"Sir, that's the last of 'em."

The trooper barked his confirmation of his sergeant's request. Route 111 stood as well fortified as the Hoenn forces could afford to make it, given the conquests of major transport lines by the Orre Expeditionary Force, as well as their ever tightening blockade north of the Hoenn mainland. The route was a massive bundle of mountain roads, light forest paths in the north that flowed into one of the most harrowing traverses in the region. And it is that stretch of land, south of the comparatively pleasant cliff roads and rocky woodland, that the defending forces are staking the survival of Mauville and the rest of southern Hoenn.

The trooper stood from his crouch and half turned to meet his sergeant face to face. The last of three machine gun mounts were set up to cover the southeast ridge, overlooking the treacherous part of the route. His left forearm was almost constantly stretched across the front of his face, despite the go-goggles and mask over it. The reaction was instinctual under the constant buffeting of the sandstorm.

A rarity for a desert of its diminutive size, the middle section of Route 111 suffers everlasting gale force winds. Massive swirling towers of sand are a common sight in the route, granted you are close enough to see them through the haze of gravel and grit that streaks around everything.

The desert is unmerciful. Exposed flesh is gradually ripped down to the bone. The blistering heat fatigued even the hardiest of soldiers. The grit jams black powder weapons and the shifting dunes make heavy transport nigh impossible. Pokémon ill-suited to the buffeting are severely hindered in their usefulness, which could be fatal in the context of a battle. But that was exactly what the Hoenn forces were counting on. In light of their recent failures to halt the Orre steamroll, the desert might be an advantageous game changer.

"Good," the sergeant replied. "Release Stocky Rocky and get 'im below the ridge. Hold onto his leash will ya? He's an excitable one."

"Yes sir!"

It was a stroke of brilliance, the sergeant thought. Stocky Rocky was the squad's heavyweight pokémon, the effect of an order General Rowling had issued a couple of months ago. The graveler turned about to be a great help with heavy lifting and cover fire, plus his abnormally cheery behaviour -for a graveler- lightened his squad's mood quite a fair bit. Plus, in this terrain, which bolsters his resistance to energy attacks from Orre pokémon, good ol' Stocky was just the right soldier to protect the machine gun mounts.

_Arceus knows we need protection for the gun's now more than e'er. 'Specially with the spittin' distance visibility and the blinkin' sand chokin' up the barrels._

Suddenly, the thumping sound of an Orre bomber payload slammed the sergeant in the chest. It was followed swiftly by the rap of gunfire, audible even over the sandstorm.

"How the hell are they flyin' in this storm!" Another thump followed. This time, cries of pain followed. The sergeant scanned the skies desperately, but with visibility so poor, it was a hopeless act.

Another thump, louder. More yells of pain. The sergeant flinched again.

No sight of the attacker.

"Lads! Get to your stations! They're here!" he hollered.

They were. The theatre of war has arrived.

* * *

Bright rays burnt into his eyes. The sweltering weather sizzled through the tattered remains of his right sleeve and prickled his arm. The fierce winds battered his tireless body and grated small holes of exposed flesh, tearing small wounds open before covering them up again with lodged gravel and grit. The entire sensation, every scab tearing, every bead of sweat trickling beneath his shirt, every singe, every throb, was absolutely…_intoxicating_.

Aquila locked onto his next target. Nudging at the bony scutes that covered his mount's back, the mercenary prompted him towards a machine gun mount on the southeast ridge. Removing a gloved finger from the reins of his flier, he pointed towards the machine gun mount and graveler. His flier exhaled a throaty affirmative and careened into a stooping dive.

"Iron wing."

* * *

_Somewhere in Hoenn_

"Did you see that!? AH-MAZING!"

"You just slashed at them! It was quite clinical wasn't it? Tell me it was quick! TELL ME!" he yelled.

"Yes! I knew it!" His grin pulled tighter.

"Do I know you or WHAT! I KNEW-"

"Sorry, sorry. Indoor voice."

That piece of gold was tightly in his grip. His head was leaned forward, his brow rolling back and forth over the stolen war documents. He would lie on one side of his head to be able to read a line, before rolling around again. The room he was in was empty and dark. He gestured wildly with his arms, grasping at hallucinations that perfectly mirrored the lines he read saturating his vision.

"Okay, okay. So you killed a squad of soldiers with a machine gun. Then you flew around and..."

"-found another squad. Did it again. And another one. And again. And again. Alright. Ooh, but getting hasty are we? The last one you err... bombed them with stone edge. "

The grinning man sighed. "BORING!"

He lifted his head to turn a page.

"Ooh, now this is interesting."

* * *

Aquila's purge was nearing completion. Smoldering plumes of ash and smoke rose towards the sky, diffusing into the rush of sand, spreading towards their creator. The ace flew through them swiftly, accelerating the mix in his wake by drawing vortexes into the blizzard of grit. They were commonplace occurrences wherever he appeared, the clouds of death, but the craters and burning debris that normally accompanied them were buried deep in the shifting sands. This time, his mark will not etch itself into the Hoenn landscape.

South of the route, the desert thinned. Just as foliage returned to the carpet the rocky ground, the sandstorm thinned to just a few streaks of earthy yellow. The Orre army thinned and the last of the Hoenn defenders loomed.

Aquila descended swiftly from his higher cruising altitude to close on the bombed remnants of a ten men supply fort that still held a few defending soldiers. He tapped his mount's neck to affirm his choice of prey to him. The beast gave its acknowledgement with a heavy exhale and lifted its head to aim a flamethrower.

"No," Aquila rasped firmly. "Get closer. We melee instead."

His mount twisted its head towards the ace, as if in disbelief. It knew fire would wreak havoc upon any enclosed construct, especially when there was such a clear shot of a blast right into the heart of the shelter from the height they were at. Aquila himself reminded it of the advantages of fire only a few days ago. Why risk injury by clawing and slashing at ground level?

Aquila tapped it again on the neck, in confirmation. The beast complied, albeit sceptically.

They tore forwards at blistering speed, shedding the last of the cover provided by the sandstorm and hurtling towards the soldiers. With a crash, the beast flew past the fort, dragging a charged iron tail attack through one of the walls of the fort. It collapsed instantly, leaving the Hoenn men exposed to further strafing runs.

The men fired their rifles frantically into the sky, but the swiftness of the follow up attack silenced half of them. Aquila choreographed every deadly blow by signalling to his mount, fearlessly if not recklessly flirting with bursts of ammunition as he did so. They soon shed even the hit and run tactics, opting instead to brawl and rip at the men in the fort, dominating their opponents within their own walls.

The wails of death and fear within the fort were suddenly overpowered by a high pitched ringing. The volume was immense, sending both Aquila and his creature into throes of agony. Moments later, they were suddenly lifted off the ground by a force, before being thrown off the fort.

The mercenary groggily got to his feet, sounds still ringing sharply in his mind. He scanned the area, looking for attackers, and more importantly, his mount. Just a dozen meters away, he spotted the beast duelling fiercely with two pokémon, an enraged camerupt and what appeared to be a massive onion shaped piece of pottery encircles by large pink eyes.

Aquila glared at the claydol, the obvious source of the psychic attack that had temporarily crippled him. He unslung his Chassepot bayonet rifle, but before he could take aim the mercenary ducked to the side and behind a large boulder, once part of the fort he destroyed.

Bullets whizzed past him. Hoenn reinforcements had arrived.

"It's the demon!"

"Help the pokémon, quickly!" they yelled, assuming cover positions as well.

Aquila counted the men up. One short of a dozen soldiers, six riflemen with their sights on his mount and the other five training their weapons on his cover. He snarled in annoyance. This would be troublesome.

Normally these men would hardly survive one salvo from him in the sky, but being temporarily grounded complicated matters. Aquila spared a glance towards his mount.

The beast heaved an upward slash of its winged forelimbs across the side of the camerupt, cleaving through flesh and severely injuring, though not mortally wounding, the fire type. It bellowed in pain, before staggering backwards. Simultaneously, the interior of the beast's mouth began glowing an intense icy blue. Two tendrils of ice mirroring enormous fangs zigzagged out of its maw, stabbing deep into one of the claydol's bulbous arms. The psychic type hovered backwards in an exaggerated flinch. At the same time, bullets ricocheted around the beast's feet, but beyond a few grazes the beast was undamaged. The soldiers simply dared not to approach close enough to get clear shots.

Aquila tipped his head in approval. His mount was handling himself just fine. He instead refocused his attention on his assailants. They were sidestepping cautiously around his cover, slowly approaching him whilst searching for an appropriate line of fire. Aquila stationed his weapon on the boulder, getting bearings on the terrain on which the Hoenn soldiers were currently trekking. Tight and uneven. Excellent. He savoured close combat battle.

His eyes wondered back up to the fort.

_Ah..._

He found his target. Aquila loaded a bullet into the barrel of the bolt action weapon and took aim. A tremendous explosion followed.

The powder kegs in the supply fort were a helpful distraction, crumpling the final few pieces of the bombed fort and sending the debris falling over the six attackers of his mount, crushing some, scattering a few and drawing the attention of the other five.

The brief reprieve was enough for Aquila. He charge forward with his bayonet, slashing at the nearest soldier before pivoting swiftly into the next man, clobbering him with the butt of the rifle. Aquila pulled a pistol from his belt and sniped off the farthest soldier, before dropping the unloaded weapon and bringing his bayonet low and stabbing another man.

The blitz attack had finally caught up with the men, and the only uninjured soldier remaining attempted to bring his long rifle to bear. Aquila dropped his deeply lodged weapon and charged forward. With one arm grasping his target's weapon, Aquila brought the other into a right hook across his face, the sharpedo skin tearing at him. Aquila pivoted deeper, elbowing him in the chin, exposing his neck. The scalloped gauntlets did the rest.

Aquila turned to check on his mount. It had defeated the camerupt relatively unharmed, but was immobilised by the claydol's psychic attacks. The beast struggled aggressively, clawing desperately at the intangible aura that pinned it to the ground. The claydol's attack seemed to steadily grow more intense, tightening its stranglehold on its enemy.

Aquila stood to take aim at the psychic with his Chassepot once more, when one of the claydol's eyes blinked at him. He was soon cast against the ground as well, the ringing sensation back in full force. The beast roared defiantly at the attack on his master, but the claydol would not be repelled. It tightened its grip on both, quieting their breaths.

A white mist swirled around the the mount as the claydol's attack grew greater. Rocks around the mount took on a deathly purple hue. The claydol's eyes reflected the eerie glow. The pressure grew on Aquila and his beast.

Suddenly the mist coalesced into an image of Aquila's beast, and the white form race towards the claydol, maw wide. Trailing the form were the glowing purple rocks, exploding up into the sky and launched into the mist. The combined force ghosted across the claydol, baking its outer surface dry and causing it to cake and crumble. The claydol reeled back in pain, releasing the pinned combatants in its shock. The freed mount wasted no time in following its white doppelganger in the attack, ending the claydol's struggles with a deadly crunch attack.

After a few moments to recover from the psychic attack Aquila rose, groggily once more, to greet the ashes before him. The Hoenn pokemon lay strewn across the battlefield, accompanied by the bodies of several soldiers scattered meters away. The remnants of the fort returned to its raw form, adding to the rocky terrain. But that was hardly holding any of Aquila's attention. He hobbled over to his mount, stunned at the move he had never before witnessed from any pokémon, let alone his own.

The creature breathed a soft growl, to which he replied with a proud pat of its neck.

* * *

"Woah, that's...Arghhh! Arceus! That's better. SO MUCH BETTER!"

The grinning man was bored no longer. He breathed heavily, exhilarated by the battle he, by proxy, witnessed.

"An ancientpower attack is rare. And his aerodactyl did it."

He rolled the gold shard in his hand back and forth restlessly. He bounced in his seat excitedly.

"It was SPECTACULAR! Well, I feel inspired."

Inspired enough to make a call. He picked up his phone and dialled a number.

"Hello, err...hello?"

No response. He rung again.

Still nothing. The grinning man sighed in disappointment.

"Jimmy, Jimmy Jimmy Jiminy Jim-Jim," he berated.

He made another phone call.

Then he looked at his watch.

"Oops, time to go!"

The grinning man finally let go of his gold, and ended the visions.

* * *

Aquila approached a young Hoenn survivor, the only one still moving and one who had actually hobbled _towards_ them when his claydol was killed. He clutched his bleeding side, likely injured when the fort collapsed. In his other hand held a pistol, aimed directly at Aquila's mount. His face was running with tears.

"CLAYDOL! CLAYDOL!" he screamed.

Aquila disarmed him with a swift twist of the arm, before pinning him to the ground with his boot. He loomed over the broken man.

" YOU MONSTER! YOU DEVIL!" he wailed at Aquila between sobs. "YOU MERCILESS WRETCHED CREATURE! HOW COULD YOU KILL HIM!"

Aquila looked down to the claydol's trainer's dog tag. 'Jason Winstrate' was inscribed on it. The mercenary turned back to his mount. And back to soldier. At his wound.

He rasped a few words.

"He was well trained. Thank you for that."

The soldier stared up at him, in a contorted mix of anguish and disbelief.

Aquila look behind him, and back to the soldier. He pulled his pistol and aimed it at the his head. The soldier's moulded into one of complete horror.

Aquila spoke up once more. "You're dying. But you won't. The Orre army will be upon you in moments. There is no escape. They will want prisoners to interrogate. They won't let you die. I will."

"This is far more favourable. Understand that."

Aquila removed his dog tag, and pocketed it. He gave the soldier a final salute.

Aquila pulled the trigger.

* * *

**Author's note**: Hey everyone, I'm back!

Firstly, thank you to those who have been so kind as to follow my work through its ups and downs, and I hope you forgive me for taking _a year_ to get back into the swing of things. I've been tremendously busy since my last update, and I do spend quite a bit of time on these chapters, which was why I took so long. I'm someone who'd rather spend more time getting the updates to a high quality and carefully mull over the rest of the plot rather than speed through them and present shoddy work, so yeah...

Also, I know it can be pretty tedious to read through some of my chapters, especially when it's late since they really are quite drawn out, so feel free to skim them. You won't lose much from the plot. But I do throw in symbolism, layered metaphors, clues and lots of foreshadowing, and to get all of them you really do have to hunker down and grind out my walls of texts. You'll get more out of it that way!

Bye!


	9. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

_Somewhere in Hoenn, 15__th__ December 2005_

"Well, Jimmy's in so much trouble. He knows I worry when he doesn't pick up my calls..."

The grinning man paced around his office with his head bowed low and his right wrist clutched in the vigorous rolling taps of his left fingers. Within his free fingers he held a glistening white ball with a crimson equator. The premier ball, despite being gifted to him years before the first was ever released to the public, was still in pristine condition. He depressed a button on its surface before letting the orb fall to the floor, immediately flooding the shadowed room with white before just as swiftly coalescing into a shark-like form. He bounced on his toes, disturbed.

The grinning man turned towards his companion, muttering a few words to it as he fingered and caressed the predator's blimp shaped head lobes. "Garchomp, we have some hunting in store. Find ol' Jimbo."

The beast growled in satisfaction, but tipped its head to the side in question to his master's last sentence. Its eyes glittered in the darkness, twin arrowheads accompanied only by two thin ribbons of gold that ran along the thumb claws of its forearms, and the yellow glint of his master's own gaze.

The grinning man ran a hand across its rough skin apologetically.

"Oh, it will be just you I'm afraid," he continued. "I'm seeing someone in a bit."

* * *

_Mossdeep City_

_17:23_

Tate and Liza had to return to the gym to continue official duties, leaving Winona more or less solitary in the city with little to do. She was due for a meeting in Mauville, but it was hours away. Fortree was in good hands as well; her gym trainers really stepped up to help run the city's pokémon administration, whilst the gym was still closed, for the obvious reason of her departure and current state of preoccupation, but also because of the general state of the region at this point. Everyone was still on edge from the attacks. Travelling trainers seemed to be a lot more cautious in her city, being one of the targets of the attacks so far. At least the other gyms save Mauville still had a healthy stream of challenges.

Winona sighed, her head dipping ever so slightly to the floor. She watched her feet quite unintentionally flick at a little piece of gravel on the pavement, sending it rolling off into the middle of the road.

"What now?" she muttered to herself.

Further research crossed her mind almost instantly – she was in the best place in the region for research after all - but she pushed those thoughts away. She'll find Mossdeep's Archives in a while. For now Winona simply soaked the city in.

Tranquillity was a defining trait for Mossdeep City. Despite being set on an island off mainland Hoenn, the city was caressed only by the gentlest of winds, with sunny being the dominant forecast all year round. The island itself was fairly flat save for a hilly region to its west, which left plenty of space for early settlements to grow into the metropolitan area it is today. The people were kind and content, and probably more so than any other city in Hoenn, there was a highly developed, and still growing, interest in the sciences. The city's academics led Hoenn's astronomy, cosmology and geology fields. Mossdeep Space Centre was among the finest institutes in the world for a space program and the undersea cavern joining Sootopolis to the city was jam packed with some of the rarest rock formations and stones in the world. Stardust and shards never before seen were amongst a few of the geological curiosities discovered there.

She found herself wondering down one of the city's streets near the Northwest harbour. It was bright outside, but cool. The sun was perched lazily in the highest parts of the sky, inexhaustibly radiating the intense white of the afternoon. Its fire, so focused and so intense at twelve o'clock, had waned ever so slightly, likewise displaced ever so slightly to the west from its position at the centre of the sky just a few hours ago. Across the sky was a single stream of white, one end streaking into the horizon, the other fading into the sea of azure. She looked up to trace the line through the sky, wondering what caused it, idly continuing her walk and conveniently finding herself stumbling into someone who was approaching her head on.

"Oof... Oh gosh, I'm really sorry about that-"

Winona looked up– wait, wasn't she just gazing into the sky just now?- from the black dress suit she had collided with, only to double take as her unfortunate acquaintance steadied her back on her feet.

"Don't worry about it." he replied smoothly, before acknowledging the gym leader who collided with him in a calm, yet unmistakably flippant voice. "Though, if you don't mind me saying, that was something very un-Winona-like for you to do."

He grinned.

"Steven!" Winona leaned forward and upwards for a brief hug, before moving back onto her heels and stepping back, arms stretched from his shoulders and her blue eyes open wide, as if to take in an unusual sight.

It was a rarity to see Steven Stone in Hoenn recently, even in his resident city. The former champion had taken to travelling around neighbouring regions for what he called soul searching, though it was doubtless that his travelling cases would always find themselves a few kilos heavier, with his soul searching constantly taking him towards precious stones and curious rock samples. And yet here he was, in Mossdeep City, almost two years since his last appearance as champion and member of the Pokémon League. And exactly as Winona recalled he was. He was tall, no doubt a problem during his frequent ventures into caverns too narrow for someone of his size to assume a comfortable posture. His silver hair was the same ordered mess he had it in the last time Winona saw him, whilst his hands too bore the exact same set of silver bands he wore whilst champion. He did have a fedora under his arm, which was new. Winona chalked it up to simply growing to appreciate his father's style; Mr Stone was iconic for bringing the fedora back into popular fashion for millionaires. Steven's features hadn't changed either; if anything, there were maybe fewer creases around his eyes. His eyes remained mostly silver and pale, yet sharp and critical; bearing a gaze that was uniquely Steven's yet prone to mirroring the hues around him.

A golden yellow tint coloured his gaze today.

Said steel type trainer was fully aware of Winona's gaze lingering on him. He recalled her telling him about a habit of doing so when seeing unusual things. _As birds do_, she said to him, _but I have to stare a bit longer since my eyesight isn't as good_.

Steven grinned wider.

"You seem surprised to see me," he stated light-heartedly, as he slid his right hand into his trouser pocket.

Winona shook out of her stare to shove him lightly in the shoulder. "You leave for a couple of months at a time and don't tell anyone! _Of course_ I wasn't surprised!" Winona scoffed jokingly. "_Please_, we all knew you were going to pull a reappearing act eventually, probably trying to catch us off guard at some inopportune time."

Steven quirked an eyebrow. "Well, what would you have me do to catch the League surprised then?" he played along. "Never return?" Steven raised his free hand smoothly to his chin, tapping them idly. "I did find a nice cave in Sinnoh. Lots of ceiling space, a tad stuffy, but it has running water. Who am I to complain?"

Winona bowed her head slightly to stifle a chuckle, and when she turned up she found her companion inviting her to walk in the same direction she was travelling before their collision. She fell in step with him immediately but as she turned to face him, she noticed a marked lack of jovialness.

"Steven, is something wrong?" she enquired, perplexed at his sudden change in mood.

"You tell me. I heard of the terrorist attack on Fortree gym and Mauville city. It's such a relief to see you unhurt. But what happened?" he enquired in a level voice, but concern shone through his stressed features. His eyes seemed to reflect more gold in his graver disposition.

Winona took a deep breath. "It's a long story. Are you busy now? I hope I'm not interrupting anything."

"Yes, you are." Steven paused, letting Winona begin to stutter an apology, before continuing.

"I was just accompanying a lovely, young gym leader to her destination, when you asked the question. So yes, you did interrupt me. But please continue," he replied, his face still showing concern, but together with a corner of his mouth that couldn't help but quirk up a bit. Winona's lips quirked upwards in response. She muttered something about him having spent too much time with Wallace, but she appreciated his snark all the same; the little quip helping her indulge him in the dark tale.

* * *

They had been walking in companionable silence for a few minutes now, no doubt a moment the former champion spent on mulling over the news Winona had revealed to him. Of course she couldn't indulge in the finer details of the case - no matter how trustworthy Steven Stone was, he wasn't part of the investigation - but she let him on a lot more than what he could gather from the news on his way back to Hoenn.

_Speaking of which..._

"So what brings you back to Hoenn?" Winona asked, baiting him to respond with a statement she could pounce on. A little proactive bantering would lighten the atmosphere that had sunk between the two of them.

"My father has an important business deal tomorrow with which he needs my help. That and Granite Cave in Sinnoh has pretty much offered me all I could want," Steven added with a grin. He hardly tried to dispel any notions about him being a rock maniac whenever the topic was brought up, and it was brought up often; so well documented were some of his early excursions when he became champion that he became associated with the digging profession as much as his heirship to Devon Co.

"Ah." Winona mused thoughtfully, before adding in mock jealousy: "If only all of us could afford to dig up Sinnoh's riches and keep them for ourselves."

Steven chuckled at that. "Just don't tell the Sinnoh League about it. I heard Cynthia has an exploratory streak of her own. She might decide to return the favour."

Winona smirked at that, before stealing a glance at the institution they were approaching. Steven didn't miss it.

"What brings us to the National Library?"

"Research in the case," she replied.

Steven nodded in understanding, before turning to face her.

"It's serious and pressing. I'll get in touch with Wallace to see how much help I can offer." Steven nodded his head briefly, as if sending a measure of reassurance to the gym leader.

Winona nodded back, in appreciation. She knew how much help he could be in resolving an issue like this.

"Get going. Wattson will have our heads if he finds out you were wasting any of my time on the case," she added before giving the former champion another brief hug.

"You're right. We'll catch up properly some other time." At that, he left, grim features dancing across his face.

Winona missed it, but what she couldn't miss was the ringing of her pokégear, just as she started in the library. She answered it.

"Get over here, _now_."

It was Looker.

* * *

_Square Spheal District, Northwest of Slateport City_

_19:47_

It truly was a curious smell. It had a coppery tang that clashed perfectly with the deep, sulphurous aroma of stagnant and putrid water, dusted with just a little bit of irritant from the crumbled concrete. Curious, but not too dissimilar to any abandoned construction site left in the rain. Except for the copper, of course. The copper was what made things interesting.

Looker drew his nose back from the broken pieces of rubble before bagging samples of them. He could determine that the bar had been partially demolished by the release of a pokémon in the vicinity of the area. But little else. The tip that Interpol had been given indicated a snitch from within the terrorist's closest circle was willing to talk. The person chose this site as their rendezvous. As per his or her request, Looker arrived with no other police enforcement. The snitch hadn't mentioned anything about the Hoenn League though. And Looker suspected Winona would be of significant aid in this meeting.

_Curious, is it not?_

Winona would be here in moments.

The agent peered around the area once more, scanning for something that made this site unique. Why choose here? Square Spheal was known as one of the gang controlled areas of Slateport. Far from the well policed and regulated seaside settlements and ports, the sleaze and shadow that cast itself over the district made it ideal for organised crime to rot a permanent niche into the city. The uncomfortably narrow side roads, poor lighting and mazelike planning of the area only made it that much easier for a criminal to shrink into the darkness.

_The place is obvious. But _this_ place... Yes, yes. Very curious..._

It was approaching dusk in Slateport now. The bar's disabled lighting left visibility to the influence of the yellow hues of the evening, but now even that gave way to a dimmer, orange and gold light. Shadows grew longer. _Yes, it is appropriately shady now. He will be here soon._

The bar was presumably a standard meeting point for organised crime. And crime lords were nothing if not greedy. Could the place have been caught in an aggressive jostle for territory in the district? That may explain the damage to the bar, but not the lack of bodies after. There a few drops of blood that survived a recent downpour – Looker had made note of that – but beyond that, no signs of casualties. An ambush on a single member? A fairly messy way to do it, what with having a wall as collateral damage for a simple assassination, but possible. Or a drunken tiff involving the trainer of a large pokémon. Possible, but then there would be no incentive for a cover up. No, a bust up involving the deconstruction of a wall would have made Slateport news by now. Unless a gang was involved that paid off, or otherwise leveraged the media from getting this out.

_Regardless, this is an important place, indeed. Yes. And my contact is running late. _

Looker's attention was averted from a piano in the remains of the bar to soft footsteps approaching from behind him. He whipped around, right hand approaching his inner coat holster as a precaution. The less than life- threatening site of his partner from the League found his gaze though, the flying gym leader adjusting her aviator's helmet as she walked cautiously into the bar.

Winona gave her police counterpart a curt nod and smile before walking up to his side, and simultaneously giving the bar a once over.

"A new crime scene. What happened here?" she muttered, still unaware of their purpose at the site.

"Wait," was his only reply.

"What do you mean?"

Looker gave her an incredulous look as if to ask whether she really didn't understand what he had said. Winona sent back an exasperated look.

"Get on with it," she probed.

The agent did not reply, but did tilt his head towards the hole in the wall, his eyes tracing a path through the opening out to a clearing that was relatively large considering the meter wide roads that were common place here.

Winona lifted her eyebrow at his interest in the clearing. "It's wider than the other alleys. Possibly meaning there was enough room for a large pokémon to be released and positioned there to cause the hole..." she thought aloud.

Looker looked annoyed at her answer. He turned back to the hole, bending down and almost creeping towards it in fascination, his gaze solidly locked on something in the clearing. Winona followed his gaze closely, noting the blue triangle that had Looker's attention so firmly seized.

"It's a scale, similar to the one we found at the museum," she said. _The garchomp was here._

Looker picked the scale up with tweezers and sealed it in a small plastic bag before rising back to a stand and staring at Winona disapprovingly.

"Firstly, I was under the impression you wanted to know why we were here. I apologise for the hasty assumption," he muttered nonchalantly.

"Excuse me?" Winona was nonplussed.

"Your analysis of the clearing, insightful as it was, was unimportant. What is important is why we are here, which you seemed barely interested in," Looker added, before letting his gaze drift out to the clearing again.

"We're carrying out an investigation of the area, aren't we?"

"Yes we are." He tapped at a piece of the wall that was still intact, as if to test if it was hollow.

"So how is the clearing unimportant?"

"It is unimportant."

"What?!"

"Goodness. One wonders how you would help in this investigation." Looker returned to smelling the concrete. Yes, definitely a copper smell there.

Winona was getting increasingly frustrated with her companion. "What are you rambling on about? Give me a straight-"

"-We both know what I am rambling on about. But it too, is unimportant. Secondly, what is important is the fact that I was tipped off that a turncoat who may just be associated with the biological attacks on your gym and the museum has decided to defect."

Realisation dawned on the avian trainer. "So that's why we're here."

"It's a crime scene." He's a cop. That's what they do.

Winona groaned in frustration. "Yes, but this is also our rendezvous point."

Looker gives her another queer look, as if noticing his partner has a knack for stating incredibly obvious things. Winona seethed at him.

A displaced shadow saved Looker from the daggers Winona was glaring at him. The agent immediately focused on the silhouetted figure of a man hiding behind a corner of a building opposite the clearing.

"What is it?" Winona enquired.

And the silhouette dashed behind the corner, with Looker in swift pursuit. Winona grumbled in annoyance, joining in the chase.

* * *

Looker skidded into a sharp left turn before sprinting down the alley after the weaving person. The man has answers and would talk; Looker was sure of it. He was just probably spooked by Winona's presence at the rendezvous.

Looker grunted as he saw his target lazy vault over a crate before slipping on a puddle and colliding into a wall, before taking off in another sharp turn. The years in his legs fought his efforts to keep up, but the grizzled agent could at least keep his target within sight. The chase had taken them well away from the busted bar and deeper into the labyrinthine alleys of Square Spheal, a place Looker could only hope was devoid of planned ambushes for now. It would be only too easy for him to lead them to a dead end and end up in a very fish-in-a-barrel-esque situation. The roads somehow seemed to get more slippery the further they ran; the dimming sky and poor lighting did little to help him avoid the many rain water filled depressions in the road and the shadowed, sudden turns in the alleys, but he could at least count on the obstacles being as much a hindrance to his target as to himself.

As the agent followed his target round another turn, he heard a calling from the gym leader behind him. Looker could only make out a few words in the chase, but it was enough for him to yell a response before pressing forwards harder.

"Halt! You might crash into a skarmory!" he shouted randomly at his target, trying anything to disrupt the man's sprint. Or at least draw his attention away from the-

_Oof. That had to hurt, indeed._

Looker pounced onto the man as soon as he collided with the shadowed wall in front of him. Attempting to grapple him onto the ground, Looker braced his forearm against the back of the man's neck, whilst kneeing at his side. But desperation fuelled Looker's target into ripping the agent from his back with a disgruntled cry, before taking off to the left into a larger clearing-

-only to collide with the steel hide of a skarmory.

Winona's avian knocked the man onto his back with a strike from his wing before leaning over him and pinning him to the ground with a talon to the chest.

Winona helped Looker up to his feet. Taking a few moments to catch his breath, the agent acknowledged Skarmory's presence with a curt nod. "Thank you for not letting me make a fool of myself," he said to the pokémon. He, after all, had only guessed that Winona would choose to use the steel bird when he shouted at the man to watch out for a skarmory.

Winona only shook her head at him before approaching the captured man.

"Who are you?" she asked.

"I- I t-told you not to bring help!" he bellowed at Looker instead. "He'll find me!"

"Who will?" Looker shot back immediately, crouching down to level the man's gaze with his own.

"He laughs and laughs. Like everything was some kind of sick joke. He killed half of us he did!"

He was hysterical now. The man clawed desperately at the steel foot on his body, trying for all he was worth to get away.

"WHO? Tell me!" Looker pressed on.

The man stared in horror at the agent in front of him, before laughing bitterly, as if a realisation had dawned on him. He stopped struggling, slouching against the wet, clammy wall behind him.

"There's no use. He'll find me now. He will! I'm dead. I was already dead as soon as _she_ showed up." He pointed a crooked finger at Winona, prompting Skarmory to press down on him a little harder. Winona's brow lowered at that.

"No one else knows of this rendezvous. It is a maze down here." Looker stated matter-of-factly. "You won't be dead for at least the time it takes for you to get out. We can help extend that time, if you so choose," he offered.

The man scoffed. "That won't stop 'im. You can't stop 'im. He found Boss Malone! Bought the loyalties of nearly all of us. Killed the rest who wouldn't cash in. And tortured and killed the boss!"

_We are getting somewhere now._ Looker could finally confirm that this snitch was a member of Leon Malone's gang before the terrorist attacks. He had heard rumours in the underworld that there were some major shifts in the power struggle to rule Hoenn's organised crime, and the man's revelation of Leon Malone's death would be a confirmation of that suspicion.

"I'm going to die because of this! You think the toxic gas is all he has! He has everything! He has the gas, he has the underworld. He even has Hoenn's money! We're all dead, ya hear me!?" He bellowed.

Looker was about to press about the identity of his employer once more when Winona stepped forward, too crouching down to the man's level, resting a forearm on one of her knees.

"Then why did you run?" she asked. "If we're all going to die, why run from us?"

Looker waited for his response. The answer seemed obvious to him, but any clear answer from him at this point would be welcome.

"He's hunting me down right now. His demon, his beast is on my tail right now!" the man half answered. Winona's gaze tightened at the mention of a demon.

_We are getting nowhere_.

Looker grabbed the man's collars and pulled upwards past the shade that Skarmory's girth had cast on him, whilst dragging the bird's talons across his chest. His eyes bore deep into the already hysterical man's mind, daring him to extract his gaze from them. Looker yelled into his face.

"For the last time, WHO!?"

The man seemed to whimper under the pressure. He muttered a word. Or tried to.

A barrage of luminescent projectiles embedded themselves into the man's upper body before he could breathe a syllable. Skarmory immediately moved to cover his trainer and Looker from any further projectiles. The two investigators, stunned in the blitz attack, snapped back into focus moments later to search for the source of the shots.

Winona picked out a dark silhouette cascading past the rapidly dimming sky, zooming into the darker east. She leapt up immediately, adjusting her aviator goggles with one hand whilst using the other to vault herself onto Skarmory's back.

"Let's go," she ordered. Skarmory crowed a reply and launched the pair of them into the dusk.

Looker turned from Winona's retreating form to the dying man in front of him.

* * *

The dimming light would be a problem for any flier on any flight, let alone one engaged in a high speed pursuit. The winds over Slateport had travelled over vast expanses of sea to reach the city, bringing with it frigid temperatures and billions of microscopic drops of rain. But this was Winona's domain, and she relished every shiver and shrill that came with the billowing Hoenn night winds. She had her gaze locked securely on the black form in front of them, who was rapidly accelerating into the distance.

_The pokémon has answers this case needs, that I need. And it isn't getting away._

Skarmory launched an air slash attack at Winona's command, slicing through the air and impacting squarely into the target's pokémon back. It tumbled briefly before its wing like forelimbs stretched wider to stabilise its flight. It turned its head to the side to size up its pursuers; when it turned to look right into her, realisation dawned on Winona.

It was the garchomp.

The land shark folded its forelimbs back to dive away from the city and into neighbouring fields and trees for cover. Winona wouldn't let it get that far; she commanded Skarmory to roll inverted and pull into a dive after it whilst simultaneously firing another air slash.

The follow up attack managed to dislodge the garchomp from its dive, taking a moment once again to right itself in the air, its retreat once again disrupted. It levelled its forelimbs in the air and glided along a climbing arc to meet Winona head on. It roared in defiance before barrelling towards her, its mouth ablaze. Winona saw the climbing garchomp and pulled their dive into a near vertical one, exposing only her pokémon's metallic underbelly to attack whilst gathering valuable air speed in the dogfight. When battling a pokémon which was naturally faster than her steel type, any opportunity to gather momentum was greatly appreciated.

The garchomp rocketed towards them but couldn't connect its fire fang attack with the breakneck speeds the skarmory had achieved in its stoop. Passing the diving pair, it instead arced around to engage in another hit and run strike, only this time angling downwards towards them.

Winona and Skarmory pulled out of the dive to skim across the ground just above tree top level. Realising the garchomp was coming in on another strike, Winona urged Skarmory to stay at tree top level, daring the garchomp to strike at them and risk crashing into the ground.

The garchomp kept coming.

* * *

"Jimmy, who is it?! Who is it?!"

Jimmy was out of time. He has seconds to live, and no chance of rescue in that time. Looker just hoped it was enough for him to tell the agent the identity of Hoenn's tormentor.

A gurgling sound erupted from him. He coughed up blood, before looking up with unfocused, lazy eyes.

"How do you know my name?" he muttered weakly before smiling, as if he was grateful he was dying in front of someone who knew him. Looker's gaze tightened. Jimmy was losing consciousness. They were out of time.

"I'll tell you once you tell me who killed Malone. I promise," Looker reassured.

Jimmy breathed out a stuttering reply.

"S-S-S..."

And he breathed no more.

* * *

Winona sent the garchomp tumbling with another air slash, before rolling up into the sky, once again daring the garchomp to keep up with her manoeuvring. Years of in flight training guided Winona's tactics. She knew Skarmory was slower and disadvantaged at a high speed hit and run battle. But Skarmory's greater affinity for altitude and slow speed manoeuvring brought its own positives. They were wearing the dragon down slowly with air slash blasts, exploiting the garchomp's inexperience in mid air battling and its relatively small wing like structures. Their size helped the land shark with speed no doubt, but provided little lift. The garchomp was being constantly forced to maintain a high speed and move across wide arcs just to stay in the air, leaving it constantly outclassed by the nimbler Skarmory's ability to cut sharp banks and find more and more angles to let rip range attacks.

Winona noticed the garchomp becoming more and more disgruntled, frustrated and exhausted. It was time to end the battle.

"Skarmory, use steel wing, just enough to knock it out," she commanded. Skarmory cawed an affirmative and took off after the turning garchomp, its wings glowing a silvery white and lengthening and melding into two smooth, glowing sickles.

The garchomp barely had enough time to turn its head before a freight train collided into its side. Winona herself was jostled by the impact; the harnesses attached to her flight suit were what held her in her place atop Skarmory's back.

The land shark had the wind completely knocked out of it by the blow, but it still managed a desperate lunge and slash at its attacker. The blow deflected off Skarmory's steel down without so much as a scratch.

Skarmory's talons locked around the garchomp's midsection, whilst his steel head tore at the garchomp's leathery head, trying to faint it for certain. The garchomp's fight began to weaken, its struggles ceasing.

Winona breathed a sigh, the thrill of the battle ebbing away as relief began flooding in. _We got it. We got it._

The garchomp's body tensed. Its golden yellow eyes snapped open, and with a guttural bellow, it ripped one last slash of its clawed, golden tipped forelimbs at Winona. The claw glanced over Skarmory, unhindered by its steel down, and sliced at Winona's harnesses before carving a slash into her left arm and drawing blood.

There was no time for shock. Winona's mind was thrown straight into oblivion once again, the hallowing throes of the Orre Uprising once again dominating her senses.

Her body became limp, and she fell off Skarmory.

* * *

Something soft and moist brought her back to consciousness. Winona opened her eyes to see the midnight blue of Hoenn sky greeting her vision.

Ringing overwhelmed her ears. But there was another sound she heard...

Blurry eyed and disorientated, Winona eased herself onto her elbows before feeling a jab of pain on her left arm. Her right instinctively reached to touch it, to discern what caused the discomfort. She felt something wet on her fingers. Winona brought her hand in front of her face to see crimson tainting them.

Shocked, her right hand fell back to the ground to prop herself up further, into some position less vulnerable than the one she was in. Her eyes darted back and forth, trying to make more out of her situation.

_What happened?_

Her breathing hiked when she saw a massive silhouette crouching in front of her. It was tremendous in size, but from the arch of the silhouette Winona could tell it was bent over. Two triangles flanked its main body, whilst bony protrusions seemed peppered down its arched shape. What appeared to be tail curled around its body.

Realisation dawned on Winona. _No, not again..._

The being, now noticing that the gym leader had woken, turned around, and crawled into the moonlight.

An aerodactyl peered at her curiously before leaning its head over her body and staring straight into her face. It then nudged her in the cheek and licked her.

* * *

Skarmory cooed in relief when Winona rose from unconsciousness, only to become anxiously silent when his trainer found her injured arm and looked at him in complete horror. She seemed to shrink away as he leaned over her slowly, moving to slowly caress her cheek with his beak.

Winona began breathing more and more heavily, until a slight yelp she couldn't contain escaped her mouth. Skarmory immediately backed away in fear of making her more uneasy.

"There you are." Looker ran up to the unnerved gym leader after hearing Skarmory's return. His eyes first found the blood dripping from her arm, but he quickly averted them to the more distressing sight of Winona's face, completely contorted in fear.

* * *

It couldn't be. _It couldn't._

There he was, right here, right now. Winona summoned all her strength to pull her eyes away from horrifying sight before her, just to convince herself that it wasn't real. She tried to find some evidence that what she was seeing was in the 1860s. That she was hallucinating again and that she was simply seeing old memories from the Orre Uprising. She feared them severely. But now she wished for it to be true. She _craved_ for it to be true.

Her eyes darted to the wall besides the aerodactyl. There was graffiti on it. Spray paint. _No._

She pulled her gaze to the floor, finding an advert for a new Ultraball design. It was definitely not the 1860s. She shook violently now.

_Wait._

She shook violently. She could move. She could lift her arm. She could feel the burn of blood dripping down her skin from her wound. She wasn't pinned by some mysterious force. This was real.

All real.

Slowly her eyes turned back to the person in front of her. He had reached to grab her shoulders now. She flinched violently. His face was unmistakable to her. The diamond cutters for eyes. The dark grungy hair that half laid haphazardly across his prominent nose and half laid swept across his forehead as if he willed it to stay out of the diamond cutters. His burn wounds dominating much of the upper left face.

He muttered something in a deep, gravelly voice. "Schaffer, take your flygon and go! Keep it together now!"

Utter confusion took over her mind.

_Schaffer?_

She felt his grip tighten on her shoulders. Sweat fell off her brow.

He spoke again. "Schaffer, look at me. Focus."

She did look at him. She saw...

* * *

"Aquila..."

"Aquila!"

"Winona, snap out of it!" Looker commanded, gripping her shoulders tighter. She was losing it. Whatever that pokémon did to her was serious.

_I need water._

Looker let go of her shoulders, moving past horribly concerned Skarmory to search for a puddle. He cupped his hands and scooped as much as he could from the puddle, before turning around to splash Winona in the face!

Winona snapped out of her stupor with a gasp, shaking violently at the sudden break into reality.

"Skarmory? L-Looker?" she stammered weakly.

Skarmory turned and stared at Looker, unsure if to glare at him for splashing water on his trainer's face, or to thank him for snapping her back into her senses.

He went with completely ignoring him and nudging his head into Winona caringly.

Looker shook his head and crouched back down to tend to Winona's wounds. He couldn't help but smirk.

_Works every time. The water, yes?_

* * *

_Rustboro City, 16__th__ December 2005,_

_9.23_

"I still believe this is a bad idea."

Steven paced back and forth in his father's office, trying to bring together a cohesive argument against the proposed merging of Silure Enterprises, an up and coming business in Sinnoh, with the Devon Co., the premier national corporation in Hoenn, that would not be immediately shot down by his father.

"You know as well as I do how beneficial it would be for the company to be able to add Silure's product list to our own. Their developments in Capture Stylus technologies are remarkable! We'd make some of our greatest profits ever if we could revolutionise the Pokémon Rangers industry!" his father replied enthusiastically.

"Besides, it's too late now. The board has agreed to it. We can't exactly send back Silure board members all the way back to Sinnoh seven minutes before our meeting either."

Steven sighed. "You're right."

"Surely they haven't fallen on your bad side, my boy. Their CEO is one of the nicest men you could ever have the pleasure of knowing!" Mr Stone stood from his desk to remove his fedora and check his hair, before curiously placing the fedora back on.

"You're right. I have yet to thank him for some of the rock and metal samples he sent by. They are truly _unique_ specimens." Steven replied, as he turned out to peer through his father's window, the yellow tones of Rustboro shining off his eyes.

"Not to mention his splendid idea of a native pokémon exchange! How was the...err...whatever the Sinnoh pokémon he gave you?"

"It's a lovely one. Truly loyal." Steven replied. "And I'm sure the aron he received is having the time of its life in Sinnoh."

"There we are! There can only be fireworks when this deal goes through!"

Steven nodded. "You might be right dad, you might be right."

* * *

_The Harbour Den, Slateport City_

_4:23_

"Yes, commissioner, she is fine. Unfortunately the garchomp got away, although we can at least ascertain fairly confidently that it was that garchomp who was responsible for the museum attack. DNA analysis of the sample we found in the bar and on Winona's pokémon should defeat any remaining doubts."

"Yes, commissioner, I will return to Mauville shortly to conduct a thorough debriefing on the events that occurred last night."

Looker tucked his pokégear back into his overcoat pocket. The meeting with Jimmy was disastrous. Only time will tell what truly happened to his League partner, and another promising lead had bitten the dust. But at least it was not fruitless. Jimmy managed to provide some idea of how extensive the terrorist's influence in Hoenn really is. It revealed that the terrorist must have spent a while taking over Hoenn's gangs, specifically Malone's operations.

"_He has Hoenn's money!"_

And that of course was the most curious of all.

And his murder must confirm those ramblings. Someone knew he would talk. And it was a garchomp. Just like in the museum. And the bar. And most likely in the murders of the flying type trainers.

Looker rubbed his brow. Those seemed so long ago.

But they're not. Jimmy singled out Winona specifically before he died. Furthermore, why is she still alive when just about every other avian trainer of her level of expertise is dead? There were plenty of opportunities to strike her down. Like just now. Yet the garchomp was hell bent on attacking Jimmy alone and escaping.

_Why?_

Winona's hallucinatory mutterings are also getting more troubling. She muttered Aquila again. Just as she did at the museum. She saw Looker as him. She even saw her Skarmory as another. What did the garchomp do precisely? All she had was a cut on her arm that would heal up soon enough.

But firstly, the underworld is involved. And if the underworld is involved, there are a fresh set of leads to follow.

_Leon Malone's gang... Yes, I can finally dig deeper..._


End file.
